


Young Gods

by abovetheserpentine



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Sports, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Fluff, M/M, it's hard to make sport interesting but i tried, liberal use of tennis facts that i researched and then got lazy about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 18:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9562178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheserpentine/pseuds/abovetheserpentine
Summary: This is Liam’s first Grand Slam. He’s eighteen, he’s a wildcard, and he has a thirst to prove himself even if he can't quite believe he's in Australia. Backed by world famous coach Louis Tomlinson, Liam feels like his chances are pretty good.Then he remembers that twenty-two year old Zayn Malik is back from injury to be a part of the tournament. Suddenly, Liam’s odds don’t seem so good anymore.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This has been on my list for ages as an AU I've wanted to do - across many fandoms, as well. So I hope it's somewhat up to par (haha, sports term...... I hate sport now).
> 
> It requires a basic understanding of tennis to read, but outside of that just know that Nadal and Federer are some of the fiercest competitors in the sport, and that they were both coming back from injury this year when they played the Australian Open.
> 
> Title from the song _Often_ by The Weeknd.

“Payno,”

 _Don’t let him get comfortable,_ Liam thinks, legs moving rapidly underneath his elbows, eyes on the floor beneath him, _Push his backhand. He’ll outlast you, always. Make your points quick and decisive. Abuse his backhand volley._

“Payno!”

Liam jolts, looking up. Louis’ in front of him, eyes wide.

“Time to go, mate.”

Liam stands, shaking his limbs out one by one. He pulls his kit onto his right shoulder, rolling his neck in the process. His skin feels damp, sweat beading at his temples. He wipes at it with his wristband, the air dry and hot.

Louis leaves him to take his place in the team area, and Liam’s alone, then. There are people around him, walking like they have a purpose. There’s a guy in a polo and khakis just to Liam’s right, a hand out as if to guide him forward.

He follows, walking through the V.I.P. area and led to the small gate onto the court. He thanks the man with a nod, and puts his kit down on the bench situated underneath an umbrella. He quickly drinks some water, the unbearable heat of the Australian sun welcoming his first match of the tournament. Silently, he’s cursing the weather – it wasn’t nearly as hot the past week he’s been here, adjusting to this particular location. There’s a small amount of hope inside him, but he’s playing the world number twenty-five. Somehow, Liam’s confidence isn’t at its peak.

He tries not to think about any other players he might encounter, and instead inspects his racket to make sure it’s in working order. He sees Simon on the other side of the umpire’s chair and looks away as quickly as he can.

 _Push him,_ Louis’ voice echoes in his head, _Push his French arse right out of the tournament._

The humour in Louis’ comment isn’t helping him right now, even if it had made him snort at the time; nerves and excitement battle inside him, making his blood sing. It’s so fucking hot, and Liam feels like he might die playing only three sets here, on this small court because it’s the first round and everyone expects an absolute slaughtering. Not like there’re many people, though. The stands hold a smattering, a few walking by with interest at who might be playing. Simon is high enough to recognise, but who wants to stay for a three setter? Liam would, but Liam loves tennis more than most. Obviously.

He looks over to see his parents animatedly talking to Louis in the V.I.P. section, Niall right next to them with Sophia, whose brown hair is tied up atop her head, damp wisps escaping.

Liam’s British. He’s not used to this.

He loses the toss and the first set, sweat obscuring his vision. Simon is coming at him languidly, relaxed in his approach. He’s agile even against Liam, who’s fourteen years younger than him. Liam’s inexperience shows, even if he’s cataloguing the way Simon is favouring his forehand, hanging around the baseline.

“Push him, Liam!” Louis calls out to him right after Simon wins the last point of the first set, securing his six games to Liam’s one.

 _Push him,_ Liam thinks, sculling a cold drink from the on-court mini fridge during the break. _Push him to use the backhand, make him come to the net. Volley him._ Volley _him._

He readjusts his headband, curls lifted off his face and tickling the tops of his ears.

He breaks Simon in the first game of the second set, securing it and feeling something travel through him – a shiver, or maybe something akin to an inkling of hope.

His purple wristbands are sopping sweat, the thirty-eight degree heat unrelenting, a fire across his skin. Simon looks equally exhausted, the midday sun zapping the energy from the both of them. Liam can work with this. He can push him.

Simon breaks him on the second game, and they’re on equal footing once more, Liam wiping the handle of his racket down with a towel just before Simon prepares to serve.

He faults, so his second serve is assured, easy and forgiving. Liam taps it up, arcs it to land in the ad court. Simon runs whippet quick, popping the ball into Liam’s back court – but Liam’s there already, and he delivers a straight backhand down the line into Simon’s own back court, securing the point. His legs feel jittery now as Simon frowns, receiving a few balls from the ball girl and getting ready to serve again.

The game’s Liam’s, and Liam sees the focus on Simon’s face, his assessing gaze of his opponent. Liam’s got his attention now; and the set continues, fierce and competitive.

The growing crowd cheers when Liam secures it, seven games to six.

He attacks in the same way during the third set, and when he finishes six to four, Simon looks concerned – as concerned as he gets, anyway; his jaw hard and his eyes cutting into Liam harshly. Liam’s feeling loose, and his volley play has been better than he could have hoped, Simon darting to and from the side of the court, tireless in his attempts but failing more than half the time to reach Liam’s sneaky volleys. For all that he’s agile, the sun isn’t working in his favour. Liam would feel bad about it, but a first round victory is one set away so he puts his guilt aside and continues, doggedly running Simon up to the net and back again, in control of the ball and slowing the pace down to try and trick his opponent.

It works. Miraculously, it works. Liam drops his racket at the loud screams of the bystanders, the umpire calling out the final score, Liam winning three sets to one.

Simon shakes his hand, a bemused smile on his face as they both turn to thank the umpire.

There’s a line of kids and adults alike on the other side of the fence once Liam gets there, faces red with exertion, hair damp with perspiration. Liam’s own curls are sticking to his neck, and he flings off his wristbands into his kit, wiping his face and arms down with a new towel. Louis embraces him without a care.

“You absolute legend,” he exclaims in Liam’s ear, “You pushed him, Payno! Your serve needs work – not to mention your backhand – but you’re in round two!”

He signs caps and large tennis balls in a daze. He sees the crowd grinning at him, a few calling out congratulations.

Liam won. He won his first Grand Slam tennis match. He beat Gilles Simon, world number twenty-five.

“Now we’ve just got to hope you don’t get Malik,” Louis comments a little later after an interview, Liam’s stuttered answers and sweaty face most likely an embarrassment he’ll have to relive later, “Apparently he demolished his first opponent yesterday.”

Liam doesn’t care, though. Zayn Malik’s return to world tennis seems so inconsequential in the face of his crying mother, his smiling father, and his overly affectionate friends. He spends his afternoon recovering, drinking lots of fluids and running through warm down exercises with Louis.

“Told you I’d get you far, Payno,” Louis says that night, as if Liam ever doubted him when he turned up to Wolverhampton Tennis Centre with a confident smirk on his face and a promise of a Grand Slam entry, “This is just the beginning.”

 

***

 

He’s near the Hisense Arena two days later, and the crowd is significantly larger than when he played Simon, though Dutra Silva is only just scraping by in the top one hundred. Like that’s not an achievement, he muses wryly – Liam’s not even ranked.

“If you can beat Simon, you can beat Dutra Silva,” Louis tells him, “Remember the videos I showed you. His backhand is absolutely mental, so you’ve got to go volleys again. We worked on those, and on your serve. If you can’t get aces out, go for the volley.”

He can’t get any aces, but they play to four sets and Liam wins, he bloody well wins and he can’t believe it even then. The audience are up for him, giving him a standing ovation that makes Liam’s smile feel fragile. Dutra Silva shakes his hand and pulls him in for a brief hug and a pat on the back, and Liam’s directed toward an interviewer after he signs some things this time, sweaty and smiling and overwhelmed.

“Liam,” she says, Australian accent making him smile, eyes crinkling, “This is absolutely unbelievable. You must be the most successful wildcard ever of this tournament, I reckon.” She moves the microphone in front of him, like he’s got anything to say to such a statement.

“Erm,” Liam stutters, pushing his hair off his face, grinning as a passerby claps him on the back, telling him he’ll be seeing him in the final, “I’m not sure. It’s rather insane, actually. I never... I never expected this. Truly. I felt privileged just to be selected.”

“Well, you proved yourself in the juniors,” she reasons, black hair flying in the breeze, “There’s a reason you’re here.”

“I worked hard to be here,” Liam says diplomatically, thinking of long days in the centre, then in London, Louis pushing him until Liam felt like his limbs would fall off, but then taking him out for dinner, or letting Liam fall asleep on his couch watching _Batman Begins_ , “Long hours, long days – just like everyone else. I’m... I’m amazed at this opportunity, and thankful that I’m managing to play the best tennis of my life.”

She laughs, and her official Australian Open lanyard sways as she leans back into it.

“Liam, I’ll let you go but I’ve got one last question for you – Zayn Malik, recently back from injury, is playing in the opposing draft. He just won his second round yesterday in a three-set domination. He’s likely up against Roger Federer if he gets to the semi-finals. Do you think you’ll be able to play him?”

Liam frowns, exhaling through his mouth harshly and shaking his head.

“That’s such a long way off,” Liam tells her, “I’m trying to take each round at a time. It would be a privilege, absolutely, to play Zayn. I don’t know him personally, but I followed him on the circuits for a long time. He’s a force to be reckoned with, and I doubt that’s changed since he got injured. For now, I wish him the best.” Liam smiles, and thinks of his next match against Raonic. “I might even go to one of his matches, if I can make the time. Thanks,” he adds, when she nods at him and turns back to the camera. Liam’s kit feels bulky as he walks away, but Niall’s there quickly, taking it from him with a grunt.

“Babe,” Sophia says once she approaches, squeezing his shoulder and smiling bright, “You’ve done so well.”

“Thanks, Soph,” Liam says, wiping at his face with the hem of his sports polo, “See you both tonight, yeah? I’ll get you passes into the hotel.”

His parents stick with him throughout his cool down, and Louis’ commentary on his game play is extensive, even if he _is_ waxing lyrical about how he knew all along that Liam had it in him.

“You’re my coach,” Liam says once they’re done, protein shake in hand, “You’re meant to believe in me.”

“Have I ever lied to you, Liam?” Louis asks him, eyebrow raised, “The key to success is keeping your ambitions realistic. I wasn’t ever going to take you on if I didn’t think you could do it.”

He stops him outside his room and pushes a water bottle into Liam’s hands. Liam desperately needs a shower, and then he needs to stay awake until ten o’clock at which point he’ll crawl under the covers and likely pass out before Niall and Sophia even leave the room.

“I mean it, Payno,” Louis says fiercely, looking intense. His hair’s longer, fringle curling at his cheekbone. It makes him look younger in Liam’s eyes, not his actual twenty-seven years. Liam still can’t quite believe Louis Tomlinson is his coach, sometimes – let alone his friend. He grew up watching him, screamed so loud he went hoarse when Louis won Wimbledon and went to world number one in a night. He’s always been on Louis’ team, but the way Louis’ now on his feels surreal. “You can win this bloody thing, Malik included.”

Liam smiles, looks down at his shoes for a moment before lifting his head with a cheeky grin.

“Not sure Malik would take too kindly to being beaten by an eighteen year old, do you?” Liam teases, and Louis grins, giving Liam a quick nipple twist that barely hurts before bidding him farewell.

Liam showers, like he’s been wanting to for hours. It’s not quite as hot as it was that day of his first match, but Australia is unforgiving in its weather, Melbourne even more so – Liam can’t get used to it, this four seasons in a day thing. It’s absolutely killing him, and so he’s shrugging on a loose t-shirt with his joggers despite the changing weather before he texts Niall.

 _come 2 hotel,_ he writes, tapping it out quickly, _ill b at front deskkkk_

He puts both of their names on his room account once they get there so things are easier in the future, and the three of them go to dinner at one of the fancy restaurants in the lobby, some seafood place that makes Liam sweat when he glimpses the prices and realises he’s severely underdressed. He’ll get some prize money, though, even if it’s miniscule – and his friends paid for their own flights out here, so he owes them. They took time off work and money out of the bank to see him play his first Grand Slam. God knows plenty of his other friends didn’t bother even _thinking_ about doing the same.

Niall’s arm is on the back of Sophia’s chair as they share dessert, Liam’s lids struggling to stay open as the night goes on.

“Christ,” Niall says, grin on his face, “Look at ya, can’t even stay awake past ten, can you?”

“S’not ten yet.” Liam yawns, watching Sophia scoop the foam off of her cappuccino.

“That makes it even worse, babe.” She comments, smiling.

“This is intense, man,” remarks Niall, staring at Liam in wonder, “Like, Soph and I thought the three of us might be out and about explorin’ Melbourne by now, not anxiously waitin’ on your _round three_ match.”

“Thanks for that,” Liam replies, sarcastic and dry – although the small smile on his face betrays his tone. “I know, though. It’s barking.”

“All I want’s to see Djokovic, though,” Niall enthuses as he leans forward, his arm sliding off of Sophia’s chair and onto the table, his fingers entwining with Sophia’s, “I’ll be pissin’ me pants the whole bloody time, but can you imagine?”

Liam shakes his head with a smile on his face, not enough energy to laugh at his friend.

“Bet you didn’t think you’d have the chance to meet Djokovic when you took that summer job at the centre, did you?” Sophia muses, leaning in to give her boyfriend a slow kiss.

“Alrigh’,” Liam slurs, rubbing his face, “S’nough. I can’t take it.”

“We’ve been dating for three years,” Sophia deadpans, giving him a look, “You and Dani were just as bad.”

“Me ‘n’ Dani barely dated six months.” Liam counters, rolling his eyes as he sits up.

“Yeah,” Niall says, grinning, “And they were the worst six months ever. You were such a prat.”

“Alright!” Liam says loudly, glaring at him, “I know, yeah? Let’s forget it.”

He’s half-way to standing when they enter, the two of them different kinds of beautiful but beautiful nonetheless.

“Is that Perrie Edwards?” Sophia mutters quietly, and Liam sees her whip around quickly before turning back to her coffee, “I think that’s Zayn Malik with her!”

“You mean Perrie Edwards from that girl band?” Niall queries, unashamed about staring.

“Yes,” Sophia whispers harshly, pulling on Niall’s hand to get him to stop looking, “They just had a really big hit.”

Liam’s avoiding looking at them, trying not to frown down at the table. He can’t help himself though, his mouth opening before he realises.

“They’ve been friends for ages, though.”

The two of them look up at him from their seats, eyebrows raised. Liam tries not to blush, though his face feels hot and uncomfortable. 

“What?” He mutters, defensive, “She’s been with him every tournament, just about.”

“Oh, mate!” Niall exclaims loudly after a pause, cackling. Liam glares at him. “I totally forgot. Soph, babe–”

“ _Niall–_ ”

“Babe, Liam used to _like_ Malik.” Niall’s eyes are wide, the ghost of a laugh on his lips, “As in, wished he could get his autograph and maybe a kiss sort of like.”

“Apt.” Sophia comments dryly, rolling her eyes.

“Niall,” Liam growls, “That was ages ago. I was thirteen.”

“Didn’t stop you from watching him a year ago, did it?” Niall jumps in, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Liam clenches his jaw in annoyance.

He’d had a crush, sure – but he was thirteen years old, and Malik had been seventeen and beautiful, and Liam was awkward and bullied at school. He was the perfect fantasy. Liam used to dream of meeting him, telling him how flawless his backhand was; how the way he held up in those grueling five set matches that would go for hours was the best thing about him. Because you’re only as good as how long you can play, and Malik never seemed to tire.

“Come on,” Niall urges, standing and pulling Sophia up as she gulps down the last of her cappuccino, “You’ve got to meet him. This is mental; when’re you going to have the chance again?”

“On the court, maybe.” Sophia comments idly, but Liam ignores her. He’s playing world number three in less than forty-eight hours. Liam’s not seeing Malik on the court unless he’s in the stands, anonymous, cheering him on from the sidelines.

Reluctantly, Liam follows them. He’d look like a bit of a knob if he hung about their table by himself whilst they spoke to a former world number one player, when Liam’s the one who’s crazy about all things tennis.

“Mate,” Niall starts once they’re close enough to be heard, though far enough away to seem kind of inconspicuous. Liam feels all of his eighteen years in his too big t-shirt and joggers, his gifted Nike sandals probably dorky and inappropriate. God, he’s such an idiot. “Sorry to interrupt, like. But we’re massive fans.”

Liam looks up just in time to see Malik’s eyes harden, though the dark lashes that line them soften him a bit. He doesn’t seem angry, per se – more closed off, if anything. Liam supposes he’s used to fans, probably gets approached all the bloody time.

This is starting to feel like a bad idea.

“Really?” Malik says, and his tone sounds cold. He jumps suddenly, and his face clears enough that Liam would describe it as blank. He sounds more normal when he continues. “That’s ace, bro. Thanks.”

Liam looks at him properly. He seems tired, even though his match was yesterday and Liam knows he won in straight sets. His dark hair looks like he’s slept on it, soft and flat. He’s wearing black skinny jeans and a black t-shirt; nondescript, like he didn’t want to be noticed. The nervous feeling in Liam’s gut worsens, and he desperately wants to tug on Niall’s shirt like an impatient child and request they leave.

Instead, he throws his right hand up in an appropriation of a wave – more of a weird sort of flapping, given the wild-eyed look Sophia gives him – and chokes out a hello.

Malik’s eyes slide to him, and he gives Liam such a thorough once-over that Liam’s left so incredibly embarrassed by the way Malik’s eyes slide away just as quickly, like Liam’s inconsequential to him, and maybe even to the conversation.

“Do you need anything?” Malik asks, and he slips back into that icy tone. Liam looks away, shoving his hands into his jogger pockets and hoping the ground swallows him whole. He trusts Sophia to tell his parents, to help them through the process of accepting that the earth parted and let their son slip right on down into the hot magma beneath, never to be seen again.

“Nah, mate,” Niall replies, and Liam can hear the grin in his voice. Niall’s so bloody easygoing, you’d have to be the devil himself to properly offend him, “Just wanted to let ya know. Good luck, and all that.”

He turns, and Liam sees enough out of the corner of his eye that he leads them away, hands still in his pockets and heart feeling heavy in his empty chest.

“So,” Niall huffs out once they get into the lobby. Liam looks over his shoulder, sees the back of Malik’s head and Perrie’s frowning face before he’s out in the hallway, “He’s a massive cunt.”

“Niall!” Sophia scolds, glaring at him.

“What?” Niall shrugs, “He didn’t even say hello to you, or to Liam.”

“He probably didn’t even know who I was,” Liam says quietly, pulling his hands out of his pockets to cross his arms as they wait for the lift. “It’s fine.” Niall snorts.

“Mate, you haven’t been watching the telly, have you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. His blonde hair looks even brighter under the lobby lights, “You’re all over. After you beat Simon, people were raving ‘bout ya. Then after Rogerio... they’re callin’ you Payne Train, bud. The Aussies are full on into ya.”

“What?” Liam asks flatly, his chest tight.

“Mate,” Niall grins, clapping Liam on the shoulder. Sophia’s smiling, though he can sense she’s still not entirely happy with Niall. “You’re a tennis pro, now. _Bask._ ”

Liam frowns, rubbing the back of his neck to get rid of the strange feeling underneath his skin there. His hair feels too long all of a sudden, the curls childish and ugly. He bites his bottom lip, feeling the sting of its rawness. The changing weather means they’re perpetually chapped, and Liam has the abrupt thought that at least he won’t be kissing anyone – would probably chafe their lips at any sort of contact.

“Shove off,” grumbles Liam, and the lift dings with its arrival, “I don’t believe you.”

Niall laughs as they go up in the lift, Sophia reluctantly grinning along with him.

Liam stays true to his word, and he falls asleep before the couple even stand up to leave an hour later, his clock reading a blurry _10:13_. He wakes with his alarm the next morning, the sun newly risen in the sky. He dons his running attire and heads to the gym, jogging for half an hour before making his way to the breakfast room, loading his plate full with fruit and throwing a few Weetbix in there. He lets it sit for twenty minutes once he’s eaten, before he heads back up to his room for a shower, changing into training gear and then meeting up with Louis on the practice courts.

“Good morning, my little prodigy,” Louis simpers, and Liam rolls his eyes with a reluctant smile, “Today we’re going to work hard on your serve, and then I want to see you hang around the baseline, practise those long shots that barely make it in.”

“I hate those,” mumbles Liam, scratching at his head with the side of his racket, “I feel like I’m cheating.”

“It’s not cheating, Liam,” Louis rolls his eyes, pulling Liam’s racket from his right hand and dropping it on top of Liam’s kit. He’s got two tennis balls in his hands, and he’s flipping them with ease, “It’s called precision hitting. If you’re good enough, your opponent won’t expect the shot to go in and they’ll flounder. Keeps you in control of the game. We’ve talked about this.”

“I know,” Liam sighs as Louis begins their first drill, throwing a ball at Liam and then the second once the first leaves his hand, “You know I hate the deception, though.”

“S’part of the game, Liam,” Louis singsongs, wincing as his left shoulder pulls a certain way, “If you want to beat Raonic, you’ve got to conform.”

Liam knows Louis’ right, even if the thought of trying to trick one of the top ranking tennis players in the world makes him feel silly, like a child playing at being a grown up.

The hitting session continues for ninety minutes, Louis not pushing to the usual 150 because it’s tournament time and Liam still needs his energy for tomorrow.

“This is the worst part.” Liam states flatly, Louis hovering over him as he stretches his hamstrings. Louis grits his teeth, like he’s smiling big and cheesy.

“I know you’re secretly into me, Liam,” he says, grunting as he pushes especially hard on Liam’s calf to further the stretch, “I know you cherish every moment of this.”

“This is like my dad giving me a stretch.” Liam groans, embarrassed, “Honestly, why can’t the physio do this?”

“Because,” Louis huffs, moving to stretch Liam’s other hamstring, “If you’ve forgotten, I’m also a physiotherapist, you _child._ ”

After another thirty minutes of contorting Liam’s body into the most awkward but weirdly satisfying positions, Louis declares him ready to hit the shower and have a few hours off to relax.

“I’m going to watch a match, actually,” Liam mentions, diligently packing away his things so he doesn’t have to look Louis in the eyes. There’s a group of people lingering in the stands, waiting for him to leave. It looks like they’ve got things for him to sign, and Liam’s still boggled – that people know his name, first off; and then that they want him to write it on their _things._ He doesn’t know how Louis does it. He’ll likely be signing their stuff, too, now that Liam thinks about it – it’s been a fair while since Louis was anything but Coach Louis to him, and not Louis Tomlinson, former world number one.

“Oh?” Louis asks, eyebrow raising, “Who, then?”

“Erm,” Liam stalls, zipping up his bag and throwing it over his shoulder as lightly as he can, “Malik and Troicki.”

“I told you,” Louis scowls, picking up his coaching bag, “You shouldn’t worry about him just yet.”

“I’m not!” Liam exclaims, frowning. He wouldn’t call it worry, exactly. “I just–”

“Payno!” A guy calls out, and Liam whips his head to see him leaning over the side of the barrier, waving, “Payne Train! Man, you’re a legend!”

Louis sighs, but there’s a smile on his face.

“Go on, then, Payne Train,” he says, and the smile turns into a smirk, “Charm the masses.”

“That’s your job.” Liam tells him, dragging Louis over by his arm to join him.

“Mate,” the brunette guy says, and he must be just a little older than Liam, tall and lean. His day pass swings from his neck, “You’re killing it. Like, no idea who you were before this, but–” His hands come up to imitate his mind’s just been blown, “Amazing. I’ll be rooting for you. Kyrgios can fuck himself.”

“Oh,” Liam says, shocked, “Erm, thanks. This is a bit much, though; I get you.”

“Nah, man,” the guy shakes his head, and Liam can see Louis biting his lip to hold back a laugh, “You’re smashing it. Would you sign this for my girlfriend? She loves you, dude.”

“Sure,” Liam agrees, feeling overwhelmed. His shirt feels sticky against his skin, and he realises how wet his hair is, headband doing little to hold back his curls today. “What’s her name?”

They get a picture with him, the two of them, before they sign a fair few other things. Liam lets Louis do the talking, though he can’t hold back his smile well enough – a middle-aged lady catches him trying not to laugh at Louis, and they share an amused grin before the two of them thank everyone and leave.

Louis meets him at the V.I.P. entrance to Rod Laver Arena after Liam’s shower, Ray Bans and a collared shirt making him look suave and every bit the celebrity. Liam’s in rolled khaki chinos and a navy blue button-down, short-sleeved – he’s sure he looks every bit the eighteen year old who last went shopping for clothes two years back, and only at his mum’s insistence.

 _Darling,_ she’d texted him that afternoon, _We’ll see you tomorrow. Your Dad and I are exploring Melbourne today. Love, Mum xoxo_

He’s glad they’re having fun. He knows his intensity can sometimes worry them, so it’s best they have some time away from him. This is as much a holiday as it is them showing their support – they deserve some time off.

Louis gets the two of them some lemonade from the member’s bar, refusing to drink alcohol himself to show solidarity, which Liam appreciates. They take their seats in the V.I.P. section, and Liam sits back, surveying the nearly full arena and the court below – a pristine thing, much fancier than the ones he’s been playing on. Makes sense, though, considering he’s a no-name.

“What you’ve got to remember about Malik,” Louis tells him as the air around them gets tense with anticipation, “is that he’s a master of the long game. It puts people off – they either start too aggressive and commit too many unforced errors, or they get nervous and go too defensive, meek in their counter-plays.”

“Ladies and Gentleman; from Serbia, Viktor Troicki.”  Troicki comes onto the court, gives a wave, and walks to his bench.

“And then Malik either goes aggressive himself, or slowly wears them down until it’s five sets in and they can’t do it anymore.” Louis explains, leaning his head toward Liam as the announcer continues.

“And from Great Britain, Zayn Malik.”

Malik walks onto the court in a bright red shirt and black shorts. He gives no waves, and his face is as blank as Liam’s ever seen it – making him realise it wasn’t blank at all back at the hotel, but uninterested. He pushes that thought aside, though. Who cares what Zayn Malik thought? Liam’s here because he hasn’t seen him play since he hurt his ankle back in 2015, just over a year ago now. It’s business, pure and simple.

“They’re phased even before the match begins. See Troicki?” Louis points the Serbian out, and Liam notes that he’s clenching and unclenching his fists from his seat at the bench, whereas Malik looks calm standing next to his kit, sipping at his drink bottle, “Looks worried, don’t he? You wouldn’t know he’s ranked higher.”

“What’s Malik’s rank now?” Liam asks, knowing he was number four when he got injured.

“He’s down to thirty.” Louis smirks, “Heard from the coach grapevine that he’s fuming about it.”

Liam can’t remember the last time Zayn Malik was ranked as low as thirtieth in the world. Probably not since he started out, seventeen and fresh-faced but undeniably lethal on the court.

“People keep saying this’ll be a close game because Troicki’s only one up the ladder,” Louis comments, sipping his lemonade. It’s not nearly as hot today, and Liam’s thankful that the short heat wave seems to have passed. “But Malik will annihilate him, just you watch. Look at his face, for Christ’s sake.”

Liam looks at Malik, and even _he’s_ a little frightened, sitting away and out of his eye line in the crowd, even if they’ve got some of the best seats in the house. Malik’s eyes are cold, his sharp jaw looking like it was made to cut glass. He’s clean-shaven, and his hair is up in soft spikes today, like it naturally does that. He must’ve just woken up when Liam saw him in the restaurant.

He’s standing as still as a statue in front of his kit, eyes focused on something on the other end of the court.

Liam shifts in his seat to look at Malik’s box. He sees a tall, muscular man who looks an awful lot like Malik, and a woman sitting next to him, tearing up. Malik’s parents. Perrie Edwards sits behind them, her blonde hair bright in the sunshine, dressed head to toe in what looks like designer clothing. Next to her sits a woman with dark, curly hair. She’s got sharp features, and a blinding grin. There are two other girls in the box, younger, both looking as if they could be related to Malik.

He focuses back on the court once Troicki wins the coin toss. From their position, the net’s about smack bang in front of them, making for a match of continuous head swinging. Liam doesn’t mind – is fairly used to it by now – but he loves the vantage point from just off-centre. The player boxes have the perfect view, to be honest. Which makes sense, considering that’s where coaches sit.

Malik gives the first smile Liam’s seen him give this tournament when they take a picture with a young kid, but then his game face is back on, cheekbones severe and unfairly angular.

Troicki’s first serve lets Liam know exactly what his gameplay is. It probably would have been better for Malik to serve first up, now that Liam thinks about it.

“He’s going aggressive,” Liam mutters to Louis after Troicki wins the first point, Malik’s face unmoved, “Not sure this is going to last long.”

Liam’s wrong. Malik comes out at the bottom by the end of the first set, losing three-six to Troicki. Troicki’s gained confidence now, his fists no longer clenching spasmodically. Instead, he’s focusing on the bottle in his hands, brightly coloured liquid reflecting in the sunlight. It’s a merciful day, pleasant with little to no breeze (especially in the arena). Perfect conditions. Liam’s sort of jealous.

“Watch the way Malik responds,” Louis says quietly out of the corner of his mouth, Malik bouncing the ball as he readies to serve, “Honestly, this is like watching Picasso paint.”

Liam scrunches his nose up at the analogy – he never really liked Picasso at school, thought his pieces were too infantile, or too fantastical. He always seemed overhyped, like everyone was seeing something Liam couldn’t.

There’s an ace. Then another, and another, then one last one to win the game.

The crowd goes wild, Malik’s face unchanged as Troicki bares his teeth in annoyance.

“Annihilation, Liam,” Louis says, the both of them standing and clapping along with everyone else, “I told you.”

Louis is right. Malik may have actually let Troicki win that first set just because he felt like it. That’s what it looks like, anyway, as Malik closes the second set with a convincing six-two lead, and the third with a result of six-one. One more, and he’ll win by a landslide.

Troicki starts the set, winning the first game despite Malik’s threats of break points. Malik’s face is still hard, still composed. He hasn’t lost his cool once. He hasn’t even celebrated winning points, just gone back to his starting position at the baseline, ready to rally once more.

Liam’s jerked out of his thoughts at a round of laughter around the stadium, a lanky ball boy recovering from an almost-fall in the nick of time. He grins, dimples digging into his cheeks.

“This kid is unbelievable,” Louis mutters, staring at the boy – though he’s more a man, Liam notes, with his large hands and tall stature, “He’s been flinging himself around all match.”

“Haven’t noticed.” Liam frowns, sliding his eyes from said ball boy over to Malik, who’s prepping for his serve.

“Me, neither, of course.” Louis says, shaking his head, “Just every now and then. Bit hard to miss a giraffe falling over its own feet.”

Liam huffs out a laugh, but the crowd is hushed silent as Malik bounces the tennis ball once, twice, three times before lifting his racket as it flies up into the air.

The rallies aren’t long, but somehow Malik looks like he’s taking his time with every point; a leisurely stroll across the court to tap a volley in Troicki’s deuce box when he’s hanging by his left side baseline; or a barely there drop shot that pops over the net surprisingly quickly; or the few slices he throws in, the ball hitting the edge of the innermost alley line so Troicki’s deceived into thinking it’s gone out. Louis looks at him sternly when that happens, eyebrows raised and sunglasses sitting on the tip of his nose.

“Alright,” Liam grumbles, “I know.”

Malik secures the game, set, and match when he delivers a punching backhand down the line, face stern and focused. At least he’s sweating, Liam concedes – there’s nothing worse than your opponent looking like they haven’t played a match at all.

The two of them shake hands, and Liam knows it must be hitting Troicki hard that he’s just gone down in rank, Malik surpassing him.

“Zayn,” Jim Courier says into his microphone after the cheers have died down. The arena is packed, no one leaving before the post-match interview with the victor, “Zayn, it’s good to have you back.”

Malik smiles, genuine though small, and nods his head.

“Thank you,” he says, and Liam’s somehow surprised at his voice, Northern and thick. He feels like it’s changed, like it’s deeper and more measured. As if Liam’s familiar with it at all, he thinks with an internal eye roll. “It’s been a while.”

“It definitely has,” Jim says, smiling in his suit. There are some chuckles around the seats, but mostly everyone is waiting with baited breath for Malik to say something of substance. “How are you feeling after the match?”

Malik licks his lips, face neutral.

“Troicki’s a strong player,” Malik comments into Jim’s microphone, “We’re close in rank, so I felt alright playing him. It was a fun match,” He cracks a smile, “At least, from my perspective.”

“But you won,” Jim finishes for him, a little cheeky. Malik’s smile widens.

“But I won, yeah.” Malik confirms, taking a gulp from his drink bottle.

“Tell me, how’s your ankle?” Jim asks, concerned frown on his face as he points down at Malik’s right foot, “You were out for over a year, dropped down twenty-six places on the ladder,” Malik’s face flickers with something before returning to his default expression, sweat making his forehead glisten, “How’s it going?”

“It’s fine, yeah,” answers Malik, glancing down at said ankle before looking back up at Jim, “I put off returning for a while because I wanted to be sure. Didn’t want to take myself out of the sport before I was twenty-three.”

There’s no underlying hint at anyone – at least that Liam can sense – but Louis tenses up beside him anyway.

“So I’m feeling confident with it,” Malik continues, nodding his head, “Looking forward to the next round.”

“Well,” Jim says, smiling at Malik like they’re old friends, “It’s good to speak to you again, Zayn. I can tell you now, us here at the Australian Open have missed you.”

The crowd roars, and Malik smiles, small, lifting a hand to acknowledge the praise before he bends to pick up his kit, shouldering it on his way out of the arena.

“I have to say, Liam,” Louis starts as they make their way from Rod Laver, “If you did beat him, I’d be pleased.”

Liam laughs, and Louis’ face looses its pinched look, the skin around his eyes relaxing a little.

“Shall we have a practice hit?” Louis suggests amiably, and Liam knows it’s not his coach suggesting the friendly match, but one of his best mates, “I could use some good fun.”

“Like you’re not loving every moment of this, Tommo.” Liam retorts, smiling, feeling his eyes crinkle.

“Oh, no,” Louis says, deadpan, “You caught me. Whatever shall I do, Payno.”

They don’t bother to change, simply undoing their shirts a few buttons for flexibility before they hit the ball back and forth, a light and playful couple of games with rackets that aren’t even theirs.

“How are you feeling about tomorrow?” Louis asks him thirty minutes in as they continue to hit the ball back and forth, slow and easy.

Liam coughs, sending Louis a deep shot that he regrets when he observes the way Louis has to stretch out his arm too far to reach it, holding back a wince.

“Alright,” Liam says, hitting the ball so it sails right to Louis, a perfect shot to receive, “I mean, it’ll be eye-opening, at least.”

“Like I’ve told you before, Liam,” Louis says, and he catches the ball Liam hits this time, ending their rally as he walks forward to the net. Liam follows, frowning. “You’ve got the skills to win this. You’ve just got to believe in yourself.”

Liam eyes him up for a moment.

“Are you quoting _Coach Carter_ at me?”

Louis rolls his eyes so hard they may as well roll all the way out of his head.

“No, I’m not quoting fucking _Coach Carter_ at you. _Jesus._ ”

Liam smiles down at his vans, scuffed and completely unsuitable for playing tennis in.

“How’s the shoulder?” Liam asks softly when he looks back up, watching Louis’ face go from fond to irritated in the time it takes for Liam’s heart to thump out a beat.

“Piss off!” Louis snaps, and Liam has to jog around the net to catch up with him as he leaves, both of them passing their borrowed rackets to Open personnel.

“Malik was just talking shit, yeah?” Liam reassures him, buttoning up his shirt, “He doesn’t even know you.”

“Look,” Louis sighs, suddenly seeming defeated, “I know. And I love coaching – especially you, because you’re so fucking easy to wind up–” Liam scowls, “–but I’m never going to be happy that my bloody shoulder ripped out of its socket twice in a year, and now I’ll never be able to win another Grand Slam.”

They’ve reached the V.I.P. entrance to Melbourne Park by now, their strides quick.

“Why do you think I coach?” Louis huffs out.

“Because you love moulding impressionable young minds like my own.”

“Because I’m living vicariously through my students, Liam,” he says, but he’s smiling now, tension gone. “But you’re not wrong. Malik’s lucky,” he adds as he gestures for one of the hired cars, “He was able to come back. And he was smart about it, didn’t push himself too early.” They hop in once it pulls up, and Liam ends up sitting across from his coach, buckling in obediently.

“He’s down in rank, though.” Liam counters, running a hand through his hair.

“Would you rather be down in rank and injury free, or battling an ongoing injury but further up the ladder? I know what I’d pick.” Louis rubs his face, sunglasses sitting atop his head. “He’s a bloody machine, Malik is. If _you_ don’t win this tournament, _he’s_ going to.”

Liam doesn’t say anything after that, instead looking out the window at the passing trams and wondering whether he’ll ever live up to Louis’ expectations. He thinks of his coach’s face when he won his last Grand Slam, pinched in pain but elated, like he couldn’t quite believe it. Louis pushed himself, then. Played to win when he shouldn’t have, shoulder too tender. He’s been versing Liam on knowing his limits ever since he began training him two years ago, and luckily Liam’s never suffered injury past a light sprain, or a knotted muscle.

He thinks of Malik, though – who tore three ligaments in his ankle; who tore all three again at a charity game for kids months after. He thinks of Malik’s year-long absence, of the look on his face as he walked onto that court earlier today.

Liam thinks of how, maybe, some people don’t have limits.

It scares him, that thought, and so he pushes it away as he opens up his hotel room door, ready for a night of room service and crappy Australian television.

 _come ovr,_ Liam texts Niall, _married at 1st site is on!!!!!_

 

 

***

 

“Set to Raonic, six to four.” The umpire says into his microphone. The audience go nuts, and Liam retreats to his bench, mouth twisting as he wipes at his face with his towel.

“Make him go long,” he mutters to himself, ball boys running around him, officials offering him cold drinks. Liam smiles, waves them off. He takes a sip of his sports drink, the lemon taste a little too bitter. “Go long, go long,” he mutters to himself, taking a seat. He switches out his racket, feeling the tighter strings, stretching them a little to even out the tension. He bounces the the side of the frame lightly against the hard court of Hisense Arena, mulling over Louis’ pre-match words. “Bring him to the net, force his backhand,” he murmurs, taking another sip, eyes going spacey as he gazes across the court at a lanky ball boy, head bowed as he plays with some of the tennis balls. He drops almost all of them, fumbling to pick them up again with flushed cheeks. “Backhand volley...” Liam muses quietly, standing, getting ready for the second set. He accepts some balls from the clumsy ball boy, hitting one of them away that seems a little flat. The _AO_ stands out clear on the ball in his hand, and Liam has a brief moment of shock – that he’s here at all, that he’s playing Milos Raonic, that he’s _serving_ to Milos Raonic.

Raonic is ranked number three in the world for a reason, and Liam’s curls are soaking wet with sweat by the end of the fourth set, a two-all result that has him reeling. He can’t believe it wasn’t done and dusted in three sets, but somehow he’s held his ground, winning his sets seven to five each time. It’s been a long and arduous game, and as Liam switches out his racket again, as well as his wristbands and his headband for new, dry ones – he glimpses the game clock, sees the _3:57_ and can’t even remember the last four hours properly, like it’s all a blur of sweat and volleys and break points.

“Come on, Payno!” someone yells as he takes up his position at the baseline, awaiting Raonic’s brutal serve.

He misses it, almost falling to the ground as his racket clatters. He regains his footing, the ball long gone as the crowd cheer at such an amazing display of tennis from the Canadian.

“Volley,” Liam mutters to himself, eyes sharp on Raonic, “ _volley._ ”

Raonic’s serve looks to be curving this time, his racket poised for top spin. Liam centres himself just as Raonic’s racket connects, and manages to pop a drop shot in response. Raonic rushes forward, face glistening. His scramble gets him to the net in time, but his hit is poor, and Liam’s already there, a backhand volley that completely bypasses Raonic and his racket to hit the deuce box, right on the inner alley line.

The crowd roars as Liam straightens with the umpire’s announcement, turning to wipe at his face with his wrist, feeling energy race through him. If he keeps Raonic on his toes, keeps him running about the court – it’s Raonic’s weakness, and a surefire way to beat his unforgiving serve.

“Toot, toot!” a group imitates, and Liam can’t help but smile, biting down on his lip at the reference to his new nickname, “Toot, toot!” More people join them this time. “Toot, toot!”

“Quiet, please,” the umpire requests, his voice monotone, “Please. Silence.”

The chant cuts out, and there’s a hush amongst the crowd.

Raonic spends the rest of the set trying to ace him, but Liam’s staring at his wrist with every serve, seeing the slight change in angle and anticipating the ball’s direction.

“Game, to Payne.” The umpire declares by its end, and Liam rushes to his bench, gulping down some water as that clumsy ball boy hands him his towel with a bright smile.

“Thanks,” Liam says, expecting to be left alone. The ball boy lingers by the umpire’s chair, though, and replies.

“No problem,” he says before a brief pause, and then with a grin, “Payne Train.”

Liam huffs out a laugh, bottle poised near his lips, shaking his head with a smile as he takes a few sips before putting the bottle away, rushing to his baseline to receive some tennis balls, turning them over in his left hand with consideration.

Liam manages his next game well, Raonic losing a fair few break points until Liam seals the deal with another volley run. It’s two-love, but Liam knows Raonic could come back at any point. There’s something lingering in his gut, though – lying in wait for a particular moment. Liam looks to Louis, who’s out of his seat with a fist in the air, yelling with the crowd. His parents are cheering alongside him, Niall and Sophia hugging in the row behind. Liam feels like his face is slack with shock.

There’s something undefinable in that moment, Liam thinks as Raonic prepares himself for the next game. It’s like Liam gets taken out of the game, out of the set, out of the match – he sees himself as Louis would, hovering at his baseline, hunched over and spinning his racket between his hands. He sees the shot as Raonic releases the ball from his left hand, and he’s darting forward to return it in an instant, slicing it to spin into Raonic’s ad court.

Everyone’s screaming as Liam returns to the baseline again, and Liam can see the exhaustion on Raonic’s face, the fatigue in his limbs as he faults, and then double faults.

Liam breaks him again, and this time Liam can’t help the smile that makes its way onto his face as the crowd chant.

“Payno! Payno! Payno!” Liam sculls some water, sucks in a liquid sugar packet, and prepares himself for the next game.

The set seems to go on for longer than the last four combined. Liam glimpses the game clock again, sees it as it flicks over to _5:00_ and heaves a sigh, bewildered. It’s five to three, and Liam just needs this game and he’s won the set – he’s won the whole fucking match – and his legs feel like they’re going to collapse underneath him at the mere thought.

It’s Raonic’s serve, so Liam feels like he can lull him into a false sense of security, maybe. He hates these long games, Raonic does – he’s always trying to get his matches over and done with as soon as possible. Right now, though, his serve is too weak to stand up against Liam. Raonic’s not used to this endurance, even though he’s younger than Louis.

So when Raonic faults, but then delivers a fantastic ace – Liam doesn’t even try to go for it. The crowd are roaring with every point, excitement thrumming through their veins. It has the atmosphere of a final, this does, not a round three match.

His next serve is softer, though, and Liam sprints forward to hit a half-volley, flat and down the line, Raonic not even bothering to push off his right foot and go for it.

“Fifteen all.” The umpire states.

The next rally is slow, Liam and Raonic hitting it back and forth but failing to get any direction on the ball. They’re each about five hits in when Raonic slips as he skids into position, delivering a great shot but allowing Liam to rush forward, hitting the ball over the net – almost catching – in Raonic’s deuce court baseline, right on the edge of the alley.

Raonic challenges – only his second of the night.

 _IN_ proclaims the big screen, and there’s a roar in Liam’s ears as he hovers at the base.

Raonic double faults, and Liam’s head feels cottony as the umpire proclaims it to be forty-fifteen.

“Match point.” He calls, and the crowd is deafening, people stomping their feet until the umpire asks for quiet again.

Liam feels the sweat dripping down his back, the tremor in his legs. He shakes them out, bending over and twisting the handle around and around as Raonic bounces the ball, lining himself up.

Raonic’s serve is brutal, and Liam stumbles as his racket catches it, delivering a poor shot right to Raonic. His opponent blasts back an incredible forehand, and Liam scrambles to catch that as well, his racket clanging against the hard surface of the court. Liam knows Raonic’s game by now, though – he knows he’ll go for the down the line shot so he’s half-way across the court by the time Raonic’s strings hits the ball, and then Liam’s stretching his right arm as far as he can, the ball connecting at just the right angle to fly diagonally across the court, landing in Raonic’s right side back court. Raonic connects, but the shot goes high and wide, and Liam drops to his knees, heart racing as the crowd yell and scream and stomp their feet. His racket is limp in his hand as he lifts his head. His parents are embracing, his mum crying her eyes out as Louis jumps up and down, screaming. Niall and Sophia are there with him, faces wild with triumph.

Numbly, Liam gets up, reaching Raonic at the net and accepting his hard hug, hearing the “Well done,” in his ear and choking out a similar sentiment. They both shake the umpire’s hand and then Liam’s at his kit, packing up mechanically and not knowing how to feel, his skin itchy and buzzing with life.

Raonic leaves the court, and Liam wipes his body down with a new towel before grabbing his water bottle and walking over to Matty Hill, whose expectation for an interview – for Liam to express himself in any way – seems truly outlandish in this moment.

“Liam, congratulations,” he tells him, his brown hair neat and combed to the side. Liam feels his curls dripping onto his neck and shoulders, and wonders how Matty looks so composed. Liam feels wrung out, but like he’s been ripped open for the world to see in the best kind of way – it’s like they know him, now, and Liam feels elation at the thought, that his name might be recognised as someone of worth to tennis, “Wow. I don’t think anyone expected the ferocity with which you played tonight.”

Liam takes a sip, gulping it down greedily so he can answer.

“I’m... I’m as surprised as you are,” Liam says, and everyone in the arena is still there, laughing at Liam’s awful, awful joke, “I mean, I’ve trained hard for this. It’s my first Grand Slam,” The crowd scream, and Liam swallows thickly, smiling, “It’s my first, and I just wanted to show everyone what I could do – wanted to show everyone how much I love tennis.”

“Well, I think there’s no doubt in everyone’s minds that you’ve done that this evening, Liam,” Matty says, grin on his face, “In a truly spectacular display. You’ve just beaten the world number three. How are you feeling?”

Liam huffs out a breath, cheeks bulging before he laughs. It’s just absolutely incredulous. How can he explain? He hasn’t quite wrapped his head around it yet, even if his Mum’s damp face tells him everything he needs to know.

“I don’t believe it,” Liam answers, continuing as chuckles resonate throughout the arena, “This is such a unique experience, and I never thought I’d get this far, not with the players I’ve been up against. Milos was tough, tonight. He brought his best tennis with him this tournament, and to have faced him was privilege enough.”

“I can confirm,” Matt starts with a smile, “That your next opponent will be Roberto Bautista Agut, from Spain. And, after that, Rafael Nadal. Both of whom played long matches like yourself in this round. What are your thoughts on that?”

 _Nadal._ Christ, Liam’s in way over his head.

“Lucky we’re all dead tired,” Liam says with an incredulous laugh, “I need every advantage I can get against both of those guys, even if that means we start off on equal footing.”

“Well said,” Matt compliments, and Liam gives him a grateful nod, eyes crinkling at a scream from the crowd, “And that’s perfect timing, that heckle, because I just want to say before you go – this crowd were backing you tonight.”

He thrusts his microphone into Liam’s face.

“They really were,” Liam says breathlessly, the crowd roaring as he gives them a laugh and a wave, “The support this tournament has been amazing. I didn’t expect this kind of enthusiasm, especially for a Pom,” Laughter again, and Liam scratches the back of his neck nervously, “But I’m so grateful for it, so all I can really say is thank you.”

“Thank _you,_ Liam, and congratulations,” Matt says, and Liam nods at him again, turning to go to his kit amongst the yelling and screaming. “Liam Payne, everyone!”

The rest of the night is a blur, his team meeting him in the V.I.P. hallways of Hisense to hug him to death, Louis pulling him in close for far longer than is necessary and pounding his hand against Liam’s back, proud and elated.

“Malik came to watch!” Niall exclaims in his ear, ignoring Liam’s protests that he’s too sweaty to hug, “Left just after your interview, mate!”

Liam can hardly react, pulled into more hugs than he remembers, then shuffled off to a post-match conference, leaving that with Louis to stretch out the match, then rehydrating by sculling a ton of fluids and scoffing down a few protein bars. It’s past midnight, but he has a small dinner of rice and chicken before he passes out in bed, freshly showered and still in a state of shock.

His parents stick around the next day, having breakfast with him and watching his practise hitting session with Louis.

“We’re so proud of you, Liam,” His dad says, bringing him in for a hug, “Louis told us he had faith in you, and we knew you’d try your best.”

“Liam,” his mum goes to say, but then she starts crying in earnest, and Liam flushes in embarrassment, hugging her.

“Mum,” he groans, “Please don’t cry. You haven’t stopped.”

“I’m just so proud of my son.” she hiccups, and Liam flushes even darker. Louis is smirking off to the side, arms crossed haughtily. “Now show me that shot again. The one you’ve been working on.”

Liam rolls his eyes with a smile, and walks to the baseline so Louis can send him a ball. It takes a while, but Liam manages to directs one down the line, and it just catches on the edge of the innermost alley line.

Liam goes to cheer at Louis – he’s been getting about sixty per cent of those shots, and they’ve been working on them solidly every practise, including this one – but sees that his eye line has shifted elsewhere.

Karen and Geoff are talking to a ball boy on the side – there’s only a few in the practice area – so that can’t be what’s caught his attention. Liam’s frowning, and it’s only as his gaze flicks over the entrance that he sees it.

Malik’s rummaging through his kit, skin glistening with sweat. Liam looks at his watch, sees that it’s later than he usually stays, given the length of his last match and subsequent sleep in. Nearing seven o’clock. Which means Malik’s five o’clock game was over in less than two hours.

Liam shares a look with Louis, who narrows his eyes.

There’s nothing more that Liam wants than to go over and congratulate Malik. His crush may have passed, but Niall was right in saying that Liam was once desperate for his autograph. Malik’s a legend, even at twenty-two, and although Liam’s been in the presence of legends since he got to Melbourne, Malik’s on a whole other level. Liam knows through osmosis that Malik was playing Andreas Seppi, who’s ranked somewhere in the eighties.

 _Annihilation,_ Liam thinks.

Louis walks over to Liam and they both watch Malik, the man from his box who looked like a taller, burlier version of the tennis player setting up drills.

“This is madness,” Louis says to Liam, Malik diving straight into practice after his game, “Are you seeing this? Malik will burn out before the tournament’s over, if he’s been doing this the whole time.”

Liam watches the way Malik’s face goes stony with concentration, his sharp cheekbones making him look fierce and focused. Liam feels clunky all of a sudden, like his curls are too bouncy, or that his cheeks are too pudgy, even if he’s eighteen and probably still has baby fat to lose.

“I should go over there,” Liam blurts out, ignoring the whip of Louis’ head in his direction, his incredulous eyes, “Say hello.”

“Liam,” Louis begins, putting an arm on Liam’s bicep in warning, “Niall told me what happened at the hotel. Are you sure that’s a good idea? The lad’s well into it, even if he should be eating and resting right now.”

Liam looks closer, sees the way Malik’s veins stand out in his neck, the way he’s dripping sweat. His couch – his father – tells him something in a foreign language, and Malik straightens, wiping his brow with his t-shirt before grabbing for his racket. His eyes slide up, then, and he locks them onto Liam’s.

They’re only a court away, so Liam feels the intensity of Malik’s stare as if they’re only a few feet apart. His golden brown eyes bore into Liam’s own, his hair sweaty and matted against his forehead. He’s wearing a white shirt, Nike logo on his left breast. Liam sees the quirk of Malik’s mouth – not quite a smile, but something other than his usual blankness – before he rips his gaze away, leaving Liam a bit breathless.

Liam pulls away from Louis, ignoring his protests to cross over until he’s sitting on the bench next to Malik’s court, eyes following the ball as Malik hits slice after slice against his father, reacting to his words with every shot, making sure the spin he places on the ball is stronger each time.

Malik’s father looks at Liam, considering, once they’re done with that ten or so minutes later, before he says something soft and short to Malik.

Malik nods, pocketing a few tennis balls as he makes his way over. He stops at the kit that lies next to Liam, his eyes flicking to the younger boy once before focusing back on his gear, pulling out a drink bottle dripping with condensation before taking a pull, gulping greedily.

“Thanks for coming to my match.” Liam says, though he’s not entirely sure why he started with that and not something else, like maybe his name, or some congratulations on Malik’s winning streak.

Malik screws the cap back on his drink, looking at Liam during his brief pause before stowing away the bottle.

“Thanks for coming to mine.” he replies, lifting his left foot up onto the bench and beginning to untie his laces.

“No problem,” Liam says after a beat, eyes roving over Malik’s lean legs and trim waist, arms thin but sinewy, “You were great, by the way. Troicki didn’t stand a chance.”

Malik looks at Liam from under his thick lashes, putting his foot down and bringing the other up to retie those laces as well.

The silence feels unbearable. Liam looks over his shoulder, glimpses Louis pushing at that ball boy whilst his parents watch, and turns back just in time for Malik to pick up his racket again, widening the strings.

“Did you–” Liam looks to Malik’s coach, who’s standing on the other end of the court, writing into a notebook of some kind, “Did you maybe want to practise together?” Liam asks, standing so he doesn’t feel like he’s a small child looking up at Malik. Somehow, the man before him makes Liam feel like he’s five years old again, holding a racket too big for him and trying to understand that he can’t hit the ball between the tramlines.

Malik eyes him then, a slightly narrow assessment, before his face clears.

“If you want,” he says, and his eyes glide over Liam’s shoulder, “Seems your coach is busy.”

Liam looks back at Louis and scowls. He’s somehow got the ball boy’s cap on his head, and the ball boy is blushing so red Liam has no doubt Louis just used a pick up line on him.

He can’t exactly blame him, though. Louis hasn’t been with anyone in the two years Liam’s known him, and Liam’s perceptive enough to notice that Louis only points out people that interest him. His comments about this friendly ball boy’s incompetence should have been answer enough to Liam’s idle thoughts on the subject.

Also, it’s not like Liam hasn’t already had some practise today. And what better way to add to that practise than to play one of the best players in the world? Because there’s no doubt in Liam’s mind that Malik is. He hasn’t looked at his most recent ranking, but Liam thinks Malik will win this tournament, and that’s bound to increase his placement significantly.

Liam picks up his racket from the sidelines of his own court, and sees the way Malik’s father raising an eyebrow at his son before sitting on the bench.

They hit back and forth leisurely for a while, the two of them silent as they rally. Liam’s not putting his back into it – it’s a friendly, and Malik looks similarly unconcerned. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to showcase his ability to Liam – especially if there’s a possibility that they’ll play each other. There’s always an advantage to your opponent not knowing your gameplay well, even if Liam studies his opponents’ other matches in preparation, like he’s sure all the other players do.

His parents walk over then, and Liam catches the ball to turn to them, Malik hovering uneasily in his back court before striding over, expression looking uncomfortable.

“We’re going to head out to dinner, love,” His mum tells him, her eyes flicking to Malik, “Did you want to come?”

“Erm,” Liam hesitates, glancing at Malik. He’s looking away, eyes squinting in the setting sun. “Yeah, alright.” He pauses, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth before continuing, “Did you want to come, then?” Liam asks, turning to Malik. Malik starts, eyes wide. He’s staring at Liam, confused.

“Oh,” Liam says, looking at his parents, “Sorry. Mum, Dad, this is... erm, this is Zayn.” He turns to Malik – though it’s probably easier to call him Zayn if he’s introducing him that way to his family, “Zayn, this is my mum and dad – Karen and Geoff.”

Zayn smiles at them once he shakes himself of his confusion, shaking Liam’s dad’s hand and smiling wide at Liam’s mum.

“Nice to meet you. You must be really proud of Liam.”

Liam’s staring at the side of Zayn’s face, watching the way his jaw shifts as he speaks, his lashes brushing his cheeks because they’re so bloody long. His hair flops over his forehead, stale with sweat, and Liam has the sudden urge to run his hands through it, sort out the tangles, scratch at his scalp as Zayn hums underneath his fingers.

Liam whips his head to his parents, his cheeks hot.

“–sure. I don’t want to, like, impose.” Zayn’s saying, and Liam’s parents are smiling at him, his mum reaching forward to rest her hand on his elbow.

“Of course not, Zayn. You’re more than welcome to join us for dinner. As long as that’s alright with your dietician.”

Zayn’s face flickers for a moment, but it’s so quick that Liam can’t determine what it means – he’s still trying to learn Zayn’s face, after all, and he’s making it spectacularly difficult with the way he so easily composes it into something neutral.

“I’m sure we’ll find something,” Zayn says, smiling gently.

The dinner is... strange. It feels familiar and comforting, his parents making things seem more real than if it were just the two of them. Zayn sits next to him, and their elbows bump as they cut into their steak with relish, the trimmings excluded at request. It’s plain, but the fresh vegetables make Liam feel better about it, the Chinese broccoli on his plate mouthwatering. Niall finds it strange that Liam’s so obsessed with vegetables – but when they’re pretty essential to your diet, you grow to love them.

His parents leave to head out to one of the wine bars in the city, and Zayn hugs Liam’s mum goodbye in a way that makes Liam’s throat feel clogged and uncomfortable. The two of them stay at the table, their waters in front of them. It feels intimate all of a sudden, given Zayn’s seated next to him and not across from.

“You’re a lot nicer than you let people think,” Liam murmurs, looking up at Zayn through his fringe.

Zayn sips his water, face contemplative. He says nothing.

There’s more silence, and Liam stares into his glass like it’ll tell him what to say. The restaurant’s somewhere close to the hotel, and Liam knows Zayn’s staying there as well – they’re sponsored by the same company, actually, and that’s who put them up. Liam guesses he’s in a lot smaller room, though.

“I–” Liam blurts out, clearing his throat when Zayn’s eyes slide over to him, piercing in their focus, “I just wanted to say... I... I’ve always admired you.”

Zayn’s eyebrows raise so slightly Liam almost misses it.

“Your game,” Liam rushes to explain, cheeks flaming, “You’re a brilliant player. I’ve been watching you since you debuted.”

Liam looks at Zayn from the corner of his eyes, his fingers playing with his glass for something to do. Zayn’s looking at Liam’s hands, and he’s not smiling but his eyes are soft, his lips slightly quirked.

“You don’t need to flatter me, Liam.” Zayn says, and his accent sounds thick in the dim lighting of the restaurant. There are a few other tables occupied around them, and Liam notes with some embarrassment that they’re mostly couples. It’s a Sunday, so the restaurants are mostly closed. This one was open, though, hence the relatively full house.

“It’s not flattery,” Liam retorts, and he grimaces when that sounds childish and petulant, “I mean, it’s genuine.” He swings his head to look at Zayn, whose eyes move from Liam’s hands to his face, searching.

They stare at each other for a moment, the quiet bustling of the restaurant filling the silence.

“I’ll be at your next match,” Liam suddenly decides, chest feeling tight, “I’ll be at all of them, if I can.”

Zayn’s jaw clenches before he sculls the rest of his drink, replacing it on the clothed table with a _clunk._

“You should get some sleep,” Zayn says, standing from his chair. Liam looks up at him, leaning back to see him properly. Zayn’s hand jerks, and then it’s settling on Liam’s shoulder, squeezing. “Goodnight, Liam.”

He walks away, and Liam’s eyes follow him out the door, his heart panging. Liam doesn’t know why.

 

***

 

Liam’s match the next day seems easy in comparison to his one against Raonic, and Liam wins in three sets and two hours, the crowd making his ears ring and the rigmarole of post-match interviews still surreal.

Niall and Sophia hang out with him that afternoon after his cool down, and it’s as they’re an hour or so into walking around Melbourne Park, V.I.P. lanyards around their necks, that they run into Louis.

“Hello!” The ball boy says with a bright smile and a wave, and Liam’s brows raise disbelievingly. Niall snorts from beside him, Sophia’s hand in his.

“Hi,” Liam says, though he’s staring at Louis in askance. Louis’ looking over Liam’s shoulder, deliberately avoiding his gaze. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name?”

“Oh!” The boy exclaims, dimples flashing, “I’m Harry.”

He’s got a slightly Northern accent, though as he continues to speak Liam realises there’s a slight Australian twang, like he’s picked up some of it through habit.

“Loved your match, by the way. You were positively brilliant. Louis was telling me all about it – I was working Rod Laver at the time, couldn’t make it myself.”

“Thanks,” Liam stutters, sneaking a glance at his friends and noticing their bemused grins, “That’s really nice of you to say.”

“We’re off now, Harold,” Louis says, grabbing Harry and pulling him into his chest, flinging an arm around the younger man’s shoulders. He shoots Liam a look, and Liam bites back a laugh, “I’ll talk to you later.”

“What was that?” Niall guffaws once the duo are far enough away. Liam sees a few people shoot them looks, some of them hesitating as if they want to approach. Liam ushers his friends on, the three of them making their way to just outside the venue.

“Leave him alone,” Sophia scolds him, but her wide smile gives her away. She’s tanned since they got here, her skin glowing a little. Liam’s got the world’s worst t-shirt tan, himself, “I think it’s sweet, even if it’s hilarious.”

“Mate,” Niall laughs, pushing Liam’s shoulder lightly to get his attention, “He looks our age. Fuck, this is too good. I’m gonna be raggin’ on Tomlinson for ages over this.”

Liam laughs, ceasing only when he’s stopped and asked for a picture.

“I’ll take it,” Niall says, the young woman by herself. Liam puts an arm around her shoulders, “Smile!”

Liam knows he probably looks like a child in the photo, but he thanks the girl anyway, smiling at her when she wishes him good luck.

“Oh, I just wanted to ask – what’s Zayn like?” Her voice is a little breathy, her red hair plastered a little to the sides of her face. There’s been another heat wave, and Liam himself is in a vest and shorts.

“Sorry?” Liam splutters, Sophia narrowing her eyes at him.

“There were– pictures,” the girl replies jerkily, her eyes darting between the three of them, “Of the two of you practising yesterday. They posted them on the _Herald Sun_ website this morning.”

Liam doesn’t know what the _Herald Sun_ is, but he presumes it’s a newspaper of some kind.

“Oh,” Liam answers, not sure how to proceed, “He’s nice, yeah. Really... really respectful.”

“Really?” She asks, “He seems so shy.”

“Well,” Liam laughs, rubbing his jaw anxiously, “Doesn’t mean he’s not nice, does it? Just ‘cause he’s quiet.”

“Well, thanks for the picture, Liam,” she says, her perplexed frowned morphing into a grin, “Can’t wait to see you in the final!”

She walks away before Liam can tell her he’s almost definitely _not_ going to be playing in the final, considering he has to beat Rafael Nadal to get there.

The three of them spend the rest of the day together, and Liam feels something ease within him – it’s easy to get caught up in the hype of the tournament; of people calling out your name, asking for pictures and autographs, creating nicknames for you. It’s not that Liam’s let it get to his head – he’s well aware of how lucky he’s been so far – but spending time with two friends from back home makes him feel like himself again, and not the Payne Train.

Liam takes his friends to the member’s section for Zayn’s game the next day, and the three of them cheer through drinks – Liam’s still on the soft drink – as Zayn destroys the Frenchman Tsonga in three straight sets, smiling small and sort of beautiful into the microphone during his post-match interview.

 _Oh no,_ Liam thinks with horror as Zayn talks about facing Roger Federer in the semi-final, _Why?_

Niall would laugh if he knew. He probably already knows, actually; and if he knows, then so does Sophia. God, Liam’s a fucking idiot. How could he have let this happen?

They barely even know each other and yet, now that Liam’s caught on, he realises the butterflies in his stomach when he thinks of Zayn aren’t nerves at the prospect of facing him – although that’s not to say he’s confident about it at all – but _feelings._ Feelings for Zayn that may not be strictly platonic.

 _You are a child,_ Liam thinks fiercely, watching as Zayn raises his racket, clapping his left hand against it in his version of applause for the audience, _He sees you as competition, nothing else._

But there’s a sneaky thought in his mind – of smitten coaches and ball boys – and it lingers, unhelpful and optimistic, waiting for the right moment to surge forward and prompt Liam to do something completely foolish, like confess his crush or lean in for a kiss that’s one hundred per cent going to be rejected. Liam’s not _that_ much of a delusional knob.

It doesn’t stop him from meeting Zayn in the hallways of Rod Laver, though, his Player’s lanyard getting him through security with no problem. He hovers amongst the crowd, alone because Niall hadn’t wanted to face Zayn again, and Louis left him after their training that day, no doubt to spend more time with Harry the ball boy. Liam will corner him about that soon enough.

The young girls who always sit in Zayn’s box are eyeing him like they’re suspicious of something – whether it’s the jean shorts Liam’s wearing, or the plain white t-shirt, Liam’s not sure – so Liam’s fidgeting, playing with the expensive watch his parents gave him for his eighteenth birthday.

The hallway’s pretty full, though not packed like it would be if Zayn had won the final. When Zayn comes around the corner and walks the short length of the hallway until the back room widens, the girls run to him, hugging him at the same time, their black hair swinging.

Zayn’s grinning down at them, and Liam’s breath hitches at the sight, his heart beating frantically in his chest, his ribs feeling too small to contain it.

He seems surprised when he catches sight of Liam hovering against one of the walls. He’s hugged his way around most of the room, kit dumped somewhere, when he strides over. It’s slow, but Liam sees the energy in Zayn’s limbs – like he could’ve gone on forever against Tsonga if he’d needed.

“You were great, Zayn,” Liam tells him, pushing his curls away from his face. Zayn’s face seems impassive, but he’s staring at Liam in a way that has him unsettled, “You’re going to smash Federer, I just know it.”

Zayn’s hand comes up to cradle Liam’s elbow lightly, his touch burning through Liam’s skin and right through to his bones. There’s a strange electric feeling, making the hairs on his arm stand on end.

“Meet me in the lobby after dinner, yeah?” he says, quiet amongst the chatter of the room, people observing them with curiosity.

Liam searches Zayn’s face and ends up nodding, speechless, his words caught in his throat and his palms feeling sweaty. Zayn’s hand drags down his forearm before leaving entirely, and he turns to hug a few guys nearby, some of them glancing at Liam shrewdly.

Chewing at his lips, Liam leaves the V.I.P. hallways and heads back to his hotel. He can’t stop thinking about the graze of Zayn’s fingertips on his elbow, the way they dragged across his arm like Zayn didn’t want to let go. He thinks of the warmth of Zayn’s eyes, and the way his lips seemed red and ready to be kissed.

He runs his hands through his hair when he gets to his hotel room. His watch tells him it’s nine thirty, and Liam knows that Zayn won’t be done until at least eleven, post-match conference and cool down to go before he has dinner.

 _Should’ve got his number,_ Liam thinks as he texts Sophia back, telling her he’ll see her before the game tomorrow.

His bed feels lumpy underneath him, and Liam browses Australian television until it hits ten thirty and he can’t take it anymore, going down the lift once he’s changed from his shorts into joggers and hanging about the lobby lounge, leaning against his hand as he gazes at the telly, the tennis coverage wrapping up. There’s a flash of Zayn’s game highlights, and then being interviewed at the winner conference. His face is blank once more, and he nods thoughtfully at questions, sipping at his drink.

“What about Liam Payne?” a woman asks, and Liam sits up in his armchair, his attention captured, “People are betting on him to reach the final. How do you feel about that?”

Zayn smiles, but then his face goes blank again.

“Liam’s a great player, and he’s proved himself so far. But I wouldn’t wish Nadal on anybody,” the conference room laughs, “so I guess we’ll see, yeah?”

“Liam.”

The voice comes from Liam’s left and he whirls around, almost falling off his chair in the process. Once he regains his balance, he whips his fringe out of his face and sees Zayn in Adidas trackpants and a black vest, his lean arms showing off smooth skin. Liam thinks he sees some tattoos peek out at Zayn’s shoulders but quickly averts his eyes, looking at Zayn’s face instead.

“Zayn.” Liam scrambles to stand, the back of his neck prickling. He brings a hand up to rub at it, his elbow pointing away from him.

“Come on, then,” Zayn murmurs, and he turns. Liam follows, shoving his hands into his pockets and trying not to admire the shift of Zayn’s shoulders underneath his vest as they walk to the lifts. Zayn gives him a sidelong glance and smiles at him, a little cheeky, as they wait.

“You’re in the penthouse?” Liam gasps out as Zayn hits the button for the top floor and then scans his room key.

Zayn’s smile turns smaller then, but he’s looking at Liam a little soft.

“I wanted to be alone,” Zayn says, his tone turning slightly melancholy. He looks at Liam again, though, and it brightens, “Has its advantages, I s’pose.”

“Advantages?” Liam gapes in disbelief, “Zayn, you’ve got a view of the whole city! You can probably see Melbourne Park from the penthouse.”

The doors ding open, and Zayn leads Liam through the main hallway and out into the back area, and Liam was right – the back walls of the room are all windows, and Melbourne lies before them, a technicolour of lights, cars looking like they’re moving slower than ants.

“You _can_ see Melbourne Park from here!” Liam exclaims, one of his hands on the glass. The city is breathtaking in the dark of night, and Liam wonders at when he’ll get to see it. Likely after tomorrow, Nadal sure to thrash him and advance to the semis.

He swings around to take in the rest of the penthouse. It’s carpeted, a light mushroom colour that suits the modern furnishings. The curtains are black, likely to completely block out the sun, and the kitchen is a stark white, the floor tiled in that area. Liam lands heavily on the light grey sectional, marveling at the width of the flatscreen television mounted on the wall. There are mirrors each side of it that make the room look longer. Liam sees the hallway go perpendicular, and is sure that’s where the bedrooms are. This whole back area is spacious, and suddenly Liam’s room seems tiny. He knew he didn’t have the best digs in the place, but the difference is startling.

Zayn appears and hands him a glass of water, sitting down next to Liam. Their knees touch, Liam slouched low on the couch as Zayn settles back into the cushions. He looks soft in the dim lighting of the room; the way the cushions frame him making him seem more fragile than he is – a man who can deliver a 200kmph serve easily. Liam sips at his water, smiling big and bright when Zayn looks his way. The older man turns his head, smiling into his shoulder as if he doesn’t want Liam to see it.

“Thank you,” he says, turning back once he seems to have composed himself. Liam’s intestines are swirling in his gut, his fingers unable to stop fiddling with his half-empty glass as he stares at Zayn, “For your kind words back at the stadium.”

“They’re just true, yeah?” Liam breathes out, raising his eyebrows as he places his glass on the glass coffee table in front of them. “I think you’re brilliant. The way you’ve come back so aggressive. You’re a whirlwind on the court, Zayn. You’re like a chameleon.”

“What?” Zayn laughs out, putting his own glass down and leaning back with a grin on his face.

“I’m serious!” Liam exclaims, shifting so one of his feet sits underneath him, leaning a little more into Zayn’s space. “You adapt your game to your opponent. You’ve got so many ways to outsmart them, it’s kind of mental.”

Zayn huffs out a laugh, his smile turning shy and bashful. Liam’s relishing in this, the first signs of Zayn appearing through the persona he radiates on court. They’re so different, and Liam’s surprised he even managed to find feelings in him for Zayn at all before now – not when the Zayn next to him is shy and humble and quiet in the best kind of way. Liam’s heart skips a beat when Zayn’s hand creeps onto his shoulder, fingertips brushing Liam’s exposed neck above his t-shirt.

“S’late,” Zayn says, and Liam knows that for them, eleven is late, “You should sleep. You’ve got an important match tomorrow, yeah?”

“S’not,” Liam mumbles, trying not to nuzzle into Zayn’s hand, instead bringing his own up to brush over Zayn’s wrist. Zayn’s eyes dart down at the contact, and Liam can’t stop looking at his lips.

 _This is a terrible idea,_ his rational side speaks up, _because you barely know him and he’s older than you and you’re PLAYING NADAL TOMORROW!_

“We both know I’m going to lose,” Liam murmurs, shifting closer, gaining the courage to circle Zayn’s wrist this time, “I mean, it’s _Nadal._ ”

“Still,” Zayn fights him, mouth twisting in his attempt to hold back a grin, “Can’t go on that court without a bit of hope.”

Liam stares at him, eyes roving over Zayn’s face greedily. His dark lashes frame delicate eyes, the depth of colour there holding Liam captive in its gaze. His jaw is sharp, and he’s clean shaven; his hair is damp and soft on his head, and one of the wide straps of his vest has fallen a little, Zayn’s collarbones an enticing sight. Liam wants to put his hand there, wants to dig nails into the bone and watch Zayn arch into him, mouth open on a moan.

His hand has a mind of its own, it seems, because suddenly smooth skin is under his fingertips, and Liam’s hand slides underneath Zayn’s vest and pushes down, exposing the top of his chest. There’s writing, ink forming something in Arabic that Liam doesn’t understand.

“I can stay.” Liam breathes, retracting his hand. Zayn’s pupils are blown, his chest rising shakily as Liam clenches his left fist out of sight, the burn of Zayn’s skin not leaving his own.

“Spoken like a true eighteen year old,” Zayn snarks without heat, and Liam frowns before he can stop himself, his hair moving to tickle the tops of his ears. Zayn’s face clears at that, and he laughs. “Not a bad thing, Liam. Not always.”

His fingers graze Liam’s neck again before retreating, Zayn twisting his shoulders to face the television as he leans forward and grabs the controller to turn it on.

 _The Avengers_ blows up their screen, and Liam jumps at the action.

“Love this one,” Zayn says, turning to assess Liam critically, “You alright with it?”

“Yeah,” Liam blurts out, grinning, “I love Marvel. I’ve got a load of comics at home.”

“Yeah?” Zayn asks, face brightening. He looks years younger, and Liam’s heart suddenly pangs at the thought, as if they’re two eighteen year olds talking about comics and hoping for a kiss, the promise of shared interests enough. Liam feels like tennis should be enough – this game they have between them, the appreciation for a sport that pushes you and pushes you until you feel like there’s nothing left. Hours of play, hours of practise, just to feel that trophy in your hands and to know you’re the best.

Liam thinks they share enough, but the way Zayn seems louder after that admission makes him ask.

“What sort of music do you like?” he questions about half an hour after they turn on the telly, the Hulk falling to the Earth so quickly he’d die if he were anyone else but Bruce Banner. Their running commentary had paused for just a moment.

“Well,” Zayn starts, clearing his throat as he shifts more towards Liam, “I’ve got the music I train to,” he smiles, cheeky, “and the music I actually like.”

Liam laughs, palming at his face as he realises how wide he’s smiling, eyes crinkling in joy.

“Training music,” Zayn starts, muting the TV and getting up, procuring his phone from his pocket and tapping on the screen until Liam hears brash guitars and screaming voices.

“Screamo?” Liam yells over the volume of the music, standing and walking closer to be heard. Melbourne city shines below them, the glass glinting off the lit lamps around the room. Zayn looks a vision against such a backdrop. “Really?”

Zayn turns it down, though it still feels abrasive to Liam’s ears. He’s cringing as he folds his arms, and Zayn’s smirking at him, amused and trying to hide it.

“I hated it,” Zayn explains, lips twitching, “Back when I first started training. I’d play it to push myself. The faster I trained, the quicker the music stopped.” He bites his lip, finally laughing, “Grew to like it, and now it’s the only thing that gets my blood racing.”

Suddenly it cuts off, and the next tune is one Liam recognises, a third of the way through the song.

“This is the kind of music I like,” Zayn tells him, turning the music up so loud that Liam’s surprised Zayn hasn’t been getting noise complaints if this is as loud as he normally has it.

Zayn throws his phone down onto the couch and starts dancing, a little dorky and a lot endearing and Liam smiles, licking his lips in nerves, feeling something start between them. It feels like they change in that moment, _I'm never sour, I'm just smokin' somethin' much louder_ resonating in Liam’s ears as Zayn moves closer, his hips going from jerky to smooth in the span of a few seconds. He feels his own smile disappear as Zayn gets close enough to brush against him, bending his knees and straightening them over and over, looking at Liam through dark lashes, face gone from teasing to something else Liam can’t name, his breath caught in his throat.

Zayn’s wide palms come up to pull at Liam’s arms and they fall from Liam’s chest. Although the music is so loud, Liam can still hear the rattle of his own breath, his shaky inhales. Zayn pulls at Liam’s left hand, bringing them close, and Liam’s helpless to steady a hand on Zayn’s waist, hearing _often, often, girl, I do this often_ pound through his veins as his hips slide against Zayn’s. Their eyes lock, and Zayn’s left hand grazes down Liam’s arm, meaningful and heavy. Liam can barely breathe with Zayn so close, and he feels like it’s hours that they stare at each other, bodies moving. Zayn’s drags his eyes away, his head moving down so his mouth hovers near Liam’s neck, hot against his skin. Liam feels goosebumps break across his own arms, biting his lip and closing his eyes as Zayn’s lips meet his skin, his tongue lapping at it.

The grip Liam has on Zayn’s waist tightens, scrunching the soft material of his vest and digging into his ribs. Liam’s forefinger feels skin, and Zayn’s hips push into Liam’s, no semblance of dancing left as they grind to _you wanna go again; girl, I'll go again..._

Liam’s head drops, his breath leaving him in heavy pants as Zayn’s teeth bite down gently. His left hand slides up Zayn’s side and over his chest to cradle the side of his bent neck.

Suddenly, the distorted guitar of _The Hills_ kicks in, and Zayn rips himself from Liam’s neck, his head rearing back and his eyes locking with Liam’s. They’re darker, and his mouth is red and a little swollen. His hair’s mussed, Liam’s left hand making a mess of it earlier in the time between the old song and the new.

_Your man on the road, he doing promo..._

Zayn licks his lips and Liam’s eyes drop, staring at them in fascination. His left hand moves from Zayn’s neck, thumb coming up to push down on his bottom lip. Zayn inhales sharply, eyelids fluttering closed.

_I can't find your house, send me the info. Driving through the gated residential..._

Liam pulls Zayn in roughly, his thumb caught between them before he rips it away, licking into Zayn’s mouth hard and unrelenting. The vibration of Zayn’s moan can be felt, but the music drowns out everything else.

_I only love it when you touch me, not feel me; when I'm fucked up, that's the real me._

The music fades out in Liam’s head, the drag of their lips and the grip of Zayn beneath his hands the only things he can register. There’s a rhythm under his skin, like the beat of _Jumanji_ in the sand – Liam has a moment to consider he should probably watch less movies – that has Liam pushing at the hem of Zayn’s vest, his nails scraping across Zayn’s navel and making him bite at Liam’s lips.

Zayn pulls away to gasp something, but the music comes back at full force then, deafening. Liam just lets Zayn push at him, the both of them stumbling as they reach the hallway. Liam’s back is against the wall and his hand is in Zayn’s hair and they’re kissing again, Liam trailing his teeth across Zayn’s jaw and suck at his neck, his pulse point throbbing in time with Liam’s barely there shifts of his hips. Zayn staggers backwards in a half-turn, pulling at Liam’s shirt collar. The whole garment slides over his head, his hair getting in the way before Zayn’s hands push into it, his fringe gone from his forehead and his lips occupied once more.

They trip into another room, and Liam only has sense enough to glance at the suitcase in the corner and the unmade bed before Zayn’s turning them, pushing Liam back until he’s sprawled on the sheets, legs splayed. The black vest Zayn was wearing goes in a flash, and then he’s crawling over Liam in nothing but low-slung trackpants, his sure fingers hooking into the waistband of Liam’s loose joggers before dragging them down without hesitation. Liam lifts his arse to help, then pulls Zayn back in by his shoulders until their chests crush together, licking at the roof of Zayn’s mouth and drawing long moans from him, hands framing his face and never wanting to let go as Zayn pushes off his own pants.

The music’s still going, but now that they’re in a different room it’s not so thunderous. Liam can both hear and feel the hot breath of Zayn on his collarbone, shuddering at the nip he gives before he moves down, hands splayed across Liam’s chest, thumbs flicking over Liam’s nipples.

Liam sits up, craning his head down to see Zayn reach underneath his belly button, biting at the muscle there and looking up at Liam.

Liam swallows, feeling drunk and so bloody sober he could drive five cars at once. He gives a jerk of his head and then Zayn’s hands drop to pull down Liam’s briefs, his hard cock flapping up against his stomach as they go, flung across the room. Zayn’s hand wraps around him then, and Liam flops back onto the bed with eyes squeezed shut and a low groan emanating from his throat.

“Fuck,” Liam breathes as something wet and hot closes over the tip of his dick. Liam’s hips stutter forward, searching for more. Zayn’s forearm comes down on Liam’s hipbones, forceful and demanding. He opens his eyes to look down, and the sight of Zayn’s lips around him, his pupils blown as he catches Liam’s gaze, nearly has him coming then and there; eighteen and experienced but feeling like a virgin under Zayn’s hands and tongue.

“Zayn,” Liam breathes, pushing at his shoulders, “Please, oh, _God–_ ”

Zayn pulls off, stroking Liam as he comes up, biting at the tendons in his neck with teeth and a clever tongue.

“I’m gonna come if you do that,” Liam murmurs as Zayn’s lips makes their way across Liam’s jaw before taking his mouth, kissing him thoroughly and leaving Liam dizzy. “D’you–?”

The question gets stuck in Liam’s throat as Zayn leans over him. Instead, Liam bites as his chest, licking at the lone ink there like that alone will translate the Arabic script, the unknown alphabet. Zayn shivers with it, and when he moves back down to kiss Liam again, he’s got a small tube in his hand, and a foil wrapper.

Liam would like to say he doesn’t whine, but that’s exactly what he does. Zayn’s hands drop the items and come up to push at Liam’s hair again, like he wants to see all of Liam’s face, like he’s a masterpiece he has to critique. He smiles down at Liam then, his eyes tender.

“Can I–?” Zayn’s right hand scrapes across the skin of Liam’s hip, his fingers fluttering near his arse.

“ _Please,_ ” Liam begs, and he knows he’ll never live this down. Zayn will make fun of him forever, surely – all Zayn had to do was kiss Liam’s cock and Liam was gagging for it, on the verge of coming so hard he would’ve seen stars.

Zayn swears, loud and filthy, smearing lube all over his right hand as his other scrambles to take off his own briefs. He manages, and then suddenly Liam’s shifting at the first push of a finger, biting his lip as it enters.

It’s been a while since he’s done this – back in London, a year or so ago with a random boy at a club. He’d been nice, and gentle, and they’d done it a few more times over the weeks they’d fooled around before Liam had stopped texting him, focusing on his tennis and forgetting about love altogether.

It had been good, then – even great at times. But the press of Zayn’s fingers inside him, stretching him out and brushing against his prostate as his left hand circles Liam’s cock has Liam swearing.

“Filthy mouth.” Zayn smirks, biting at Liam’s lips. Liam’s brow is furrowed, his cheeks burning with the exertion of holding back his orgasm. His thighs are trembling, Zayn releasing his cock to place a palm on one of them, gripping it hard to stop the quivering.

“Like,” Liam breathes out, right hand flinging out at a hard stroke of Zayn’s fingers to grasp at Zayn’s hand on his thigh, “you... can talk...”

“Yeah?” Zayn huffs out, the tip of his pinky finger just pushing into Liam. Liam moans at the added pressure, wanting more but also wanting less as Zayn’s fingers scissor inside him, overwhelmed but desperate for some kind of friction, some kind of _other._ “Don’t see you complaining, babe,” He leans in to crush their mouths together. When they part, he’s panting, his voice low, “You might even beg for it.”

Liam shudders, bringing his right hand across to shove at Zayn’s hand, his fingers sliding out of him with a pleasurable drag. He emits a high-pitched moan, and Zayn chuckles into his chin, biting at it playfully before he leans back.

Liam watches him rip the condom wrapper open with his teeth, lubed fingers taking it from its packet and rolling it over his hard dick. He strokes himself a few times, hips pushing into the touch before he lets go. His sticky hands grip at Liam’s hips, pushing him until Liam shifts, rolling over onto his belly, cock caught between his abs and the messy sheets below him.

The older man’s hands push at Liam’s arse cheeks, spreading them to see Liam properly, most likely wet and pink and desperate.

“God,” Zayn breathes, and Liam cranes his head over his shoulder to see him lean down, lips and teeth scraping up Liam’s muscled back and shoulders until he takes his mouth, tongue swiping against Liam’s hard and fast, “You’re,” He drops his forehead to Liam’s shoulder as Liam puts his own to the bed, overcome, “ _hairan kun._ ”

If he were of sound mind – as in, if he weren’t panting against Zayn’s bed sheets, ready to feel his cock split him open – Liam might ask what that meant. Instead, he pushes his arse up into Zayn, feeling the heat of him rest between his cheeks.

“Settle,” Zayn breathes, pushing down gently on Liam’s lower back, stopping his erratic thrusts down into the mattress and up into Zayn, “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

Liam bites at the covers as Zayn pushes in, groaning at the pressure of him. There’s an ache inside Liam, but it throbs away quickly enough at the pull and push of Zayn against him.

They’re only a few thrusts in before Zayn grabs Liam’s hips and hauls him up onto his knees, hipbones shoving into the flesh of his cheeks and making Liam moan, high and quick.

“There,” Zayn murmurs, and he thrusts hard again, another moan slipping from between Liam’s lax lips, “ _Fuck._ ” He spits out the curse, hips jack rabbiting again.

Liam’s arms fail him, and he drops to his elbows as Zayn’s thrusts go from erratic to rhythmic, the sharp of his hipbones biting into Liam’s arse with every shift. Liam’s curls are all over – in his eyes, brushing his ears, dampening at the sweat pooled in his nape.

Zayn’s not overly big, or overly long – a perfectly proportional cock, Liam had thought – but he angles his thrusts in a way that has Liam panting into the sheets, pulling one of the pillows so it rests beneath him, burying his face into it to hold back his cries when Zayn drags against his prostate.

They come out anyway, short and cut-off as Zayn thrusts into him. He feels stretched and full, and the feel of Zayn inside him is definitely going to be enough to have him orgasm, his cock feeling neglected but not needing attention, not like it did when Liam did this in London.

Zayn slows, though, and Liam whines out something unintelligible even to himself as Zayn’s hands pull at him. He follows, lifting himself up on shaking arms and using his trembling ab muscles to lie back against Zayn, his shoulders connecting with Zayn’s chest.

His curls are plastered to his forehead, his mouth wet and swollen after biting the pillow. Liam glances down, eyes half-lidded, to see a damp spot on the cotton, blurry with the way Liam feels loose and hazy, the bump of Zayn’s hips jolting him forward slightly.

Zayn bites at Liam’s shoulder, down and down until he’s leaning his face against the middle of Liam’s upper back, his hands hard at Liam’s trim waist. Liam’s thighs are burning with the force of keeping himself up, Zayn’s own lined up behind his, their skin moving against one another in a sensual slide.

“I can’t,” Liam chokes out, shaking his head as he closes his eyes, cock throbbing as it bobs up and down with each thrust, a burning in his veins. He grabs it, squeezing at the base to hold off anything. “Zayn,” Liam almost sobs out, breathing harshly through his nose, “I can’t, I can’t, _I can’t–_ ”

Zayn lets go of him and Liam falls forward, bracing himself with both of his palms on the bed. His partner picks up the rhythm again, and Liam cries out when he hits Liam’s prostate and then Liam’s coming, vision blanking out as his arms collapse beneath him. It feels like it goes on forever, and he’s just about to squirm away from the hardness in him, too sensitive to keep feeling so full when Zayn shudders behind him, his chest bumping into Liam’s back and his forehead resting on the nape of Liam’s neck as he spits out a few curses, groaning.

Liam’s already lying flat on the bed by the time Zayn pulls out, and his head feels so cloudy in his post-orgasm haze that he barely notices him disposing of the condom. He feels hands turn him over and wipe at his trembling stomach, limbs like a ragdoll’s as Zayn disposes of that, too.

When Zayn climbs back onto the bed, the sheets bunched at their ankles, Liam blinks open his eyes, seeing the way Zayn’s hair is soft against his forehead, how his mouth looks obscenely red and his tattoo is stark on his glistening skin. Zayn brings a hand up to push at Liam’s curly fringe again and he smiles gently, his eyes sweet in their careful perusal of Liam’s face – making sure he’s alright, that he’s sleepy and sated.

They kiss again, and Liam brings up a lazy hand to rest on Zayn’s wrist, his palm covering Liam’s left cheek.

“Sleep,” Zayn tells him, sinking down to rest his head on the clean pillow, hand sliding down to rest on Liam’s left collarbone, forearm heavy across his chest. “Sleep, Liam.”

Liam falls asleep to the soft, even breathing of Zayn, and wakes to the same.

They’ve barely moved in the night, and Liam’s cheeks pink only slightly at the fact they slept naked, no sheet covering either of them. Zayn’s arse is in plain view, and Liam sits up to cover himself. He stares down at the man next to him, eyes travelling across the planes of his shoulders to his slightly round arse, skinny and hairy thighs leading down to bony ankles. Liam’s eyes flick back up to Zayn’s face, and he sees the spread of his eyelashes across his cheekbones, the relaxed pout on his lips.

He’s not perfect, but he’s near as. Liam reminisces about the night before as he watches the rise and fall of Zayn’s back, hi heartbeat quickening at the flashes of Zayn inside him, the drag of his hard cock against Liam’s prostate.

Liam reddens, smiling into his hand as he rubs his face. He turns to the clock on the bedside, glimpses the _8:14_ and realises he should probably get up. Louis will be expecting him in a half hour, and Liam hasn’t even had breakfast yet.

Though the match didn’t seem to be strenuous yesterday, Liam lets Zayn sleep – they’re professional athletes, and Liam knows he pushed Zayn a little yesterday by having sex with him at all. He deserves rest; if Liam can’t have it, Zayn should.

He scribbles out his phone number on the hotel notepad once he’s dressed and places it next to Zayn in bed, a scrawled _see you l8r xx_ underneath his name. That should let Zayn know exactly what he’s feeling. He wants to see him again, and soon. He’ll be out of the tournament by this evening, and although Zayn can’t celebrate with him in the traditional sense, maybe they can have a repeat of last night in their own kind of send-off.

Liam knows he’s painfully ( _hah!_ ) smiley when he meets up with Louis, and he avoids talking about it for as long as possible until Louis literally prods it out of him, a frown on his face.

“I was with Zayn,” Liam blurts out, fiddling with the handle of his racket after their light hitting session. Louis focused on attacking a left-handed player, but they both know Nadal will eviscerate him. “Last night.”

Louis’s eyebrows shoot straight up.

“Malik?” He questions. Liam bites his lip, scrunches up his nose. “Well.” He doesn’t seem to know what to say.

“It’s not like I’ll be in the tournament much longer,” Liam tells him, trying to reassure his coach that he’s not compromised, “He’s so...”

Louis smiles as Liam trails off, his jaw shifting as he tries not to laugh.

“Yeah,” he agrees, though it sounds more like he’s thinking of something else, “Alright.”

His parents give him their luck that night before the game, and Niall and Sophia linger as they leave, waving at him as they walk down the hallway. Liam’s kit sits off to the side, and his best friends smile at him.

“We’ll still love ya, Liam,” Niall says, squeezing Liam’s shoulder, “Even if Nadal makes you look like a fuckin’ kid.”

“Thanks, Niall.” Liam says dryly, but they’re both grinning at each other.

Liam pulls him in, hugs him long and hard and tries not to tear up when Niall whispers, “Good luck, dickhead.”

“Move _over!_ ” Sophia urges, pushing at her boyfriend to hug Liam, her hair getting in his mouth. He’s trying to spit it out as she speaks, quick and excited. “I’m so proud of you, babe. You’ve done so well. We’ll be cheering for you no matter what.” She pulls back, frames his face between her hands, “And you _can_ beat him, you know.”

Liam knows – there’re all kinds of ways he could beat Nadal, but they won’t happen tonight. One day, maybe, but not tonight.

“Thanks, Soph,” Liam replies softly as her hands leave his face, “You lot should go, though. You might embarrass yourself if you’re late.”

Niall shoves at his head playfully before they both head off, and Liam’s rubbing at his forehead with a smile as he picks up his kit, a suited official coming around the corner to lead him down the hall.

Nadal nods at him when they meet in the halls, and Liam nods back, his hair off his face with his purple headband and therefore not swinging with the movement.

Nadal stops at the bottom of the blue stairs, shaking out his arms as he waits to be called.

“Ladies and Gentleman,” Nadal walks forward, and Liam sees him stride onto the blue of the hard court, “from Spain, Rafael Nadal!”

He goes down the stairs, taking Nadal’s place, his ears ringing with all the thoughts running through his head. His right hand pulls at the strap of his kit.

“And from Great Britain,” Liam walks forward, his shoes touching the court of Rod Laver Arena for the last time this tournament, “Liam Payne!”

Liam exhales.

And then he smiles.

 

***

 

He’s staring at the ground with wide eyes, his racket between his palms. His shirt is wet with sweat – especially down his back – and his legs are trembling beneath his arms.

“Quiet, please,” the umpire insists, the loud murmurs of the crowd concerned and horrified, “ _Quiet._ ”

Metres away, past the umpire’s chair, Nadal grunts in pain.

“It’s torn,” Liam hears from Nadal’s bench, the matter-of-fact Australian accent far from calming, “The tendon in his thumb, it’s torn.”

Nadal groans, and Liam grimaces at the sound, dropping his racket onto the ground with a clatter as his hands drag roughly over his face. He closes them into fists and holds them over his mouth, staring at the ground once more.

He’d held up his own by winning his serves, managing to scrape by with the first set seven to six. Nadal had gone for it in the second set, winning six to three; and it had been in the second game of the third set that Liam had crashed to the ground to return Nadal’s baseline shot. Nadal had rushed forward to reach the drop shot in time and stumbled, racket hitting the ground and his wrist bending unnatural given his velocity.

Liam feels heavy with the weight of it, the fact that it was _his_ shot that made Nadal cry out in pain, eyes squeezed shut as he curled up on the ground of Rod Laver Arena. Liam’s brain pounds against his skull, a reminder of his fall, as his dread increases.

The nearly fifteen thousand people in the jam-packed stadium suddenly hush, and Liam looks up to see one of the Australian Open officials come onto the court with a microphone as Nadal is ushered away, grimacing. A camera man follows the official, and Liam gulps as he stands, stomach churning. He glimpses his family in the box, faces stricken.

His eyes rove over the crowd until they settle on Zayn, whose face is unreadable underneath the arena lights.

“Ladies and Gentleman,” the man starts, and Liam’s heart drops, “It is with sadness that I must inform you that Rafael Nadal has retired from the match, as well as the Australian Open.”

The crowd makes sounds of shock, gasps of horror. Liam stares at the official, begging him not to say it.

“Therefore, according to the official rule book, Liam Payne will be moving on to the semifinal. I thank you all for your support, and you will be contacted in the next seventy-two hours regarding your tickets.”

The official walks over to Liam, his microphone suddenly gone and no camera man in sight. Liam can’t move his limbs, can’t shake himself out of being frozen. His heart’s pounding in his ribcage, his lungs stretching to accommodate air that’s just not coming in.

Like he’s helpless to it – like Zayn’s a magnet and Liam’s his polar opposite – Liam’s eyes search for him. He sees his face; his mouth’s agape, his eyes wide. His father tugs at his arm, speaking to him quickly though of course Liam can’t hear anything amongst the sound of the confused crowd.

Zayn looks panicked, and it takes everything in Liam to look away, to nod at whatever the official is telling him, packing up his kit and walking out into the V.I.P. area, being led into the conference room and asked about his win.

“It’s not a win,” Liam croaks, “This is not a win. No one wants to move forward in a tournament like this.”

“Did you think you’d win, though?” An insensitive journalist prods, and Liam feels a twinge of gratefulness at the dark looks he receives from the others.

“No,” Liam says frankly, feeling blank, “And I was happy to lose to one of the best in the world.”

He spends the whole conference answering like that, not bothering to hide his true feelings, telling the truth and remember that look on Zayn’s face like it’s been branded right onto the backs of his eyelids.

He finally gets to see his family after, and Liam feels no shame when he buries his head into his mother’s neck and cries, silent and heaving. His dad has a large hand on his back, rubbing soothingly.

“It’s alright,” his mother tells him quietly, everyone in the hall talking in hushed voices like Liam’s the one who got injured, who deserves this kind of respect, “It’ll be alright, love.”

His dad hugs him as soon as he breaks away from his mum, and he holds on longer than he usually does, sniffling, wishing he could go back to that feeling after he beat Raonic – high on everything, giddy with his success, bold in his advances.

Louis is next, and he hugs Liam just as hard, whispering in his ear.

“Could’ve happened to anyone,” he murmurs, “It wasn’t you, Liam.”

Niall and Sophia hug him at the same time, and Liam gives a wet laugh, burying his head in Niall’s chest as Sophia’s chin rests on his shoulder. She wipes at his cheeks as they part, and he sends her a wobbly smile. Niall pulls him in again, just the two of them, and the wrap of his best friend’s arms around him makes Liam want to cry all over again. Instead, he swallows down his tears and clears his throat, slapping Niall lightly once they’re done, enjoying the playfully offended expression on his friend’s face.

Louis’ eyes seem to be searching for someone amongst everyone in the room, but Liam shoves his suspicions aside, pulling away from his inner circle of people to talk to some important suits, who tell him what awaits, how he needs to conduct himself, what’s going to happen to his ranking – all the kinds of things he doesn’t want to think about, but act as a helpful distraction to the one thing he can’t really _stop_ thinking about.

Zayn’s face lingers in his thoughts; and, as the night goes on, Liam’s already battered heart squeezes painfully with each new remembrance.

 

***

 

“They really should have fired him already,” Louis huffs as they take their seats in the member’s section, the shape of Harry below almost tripping over a rolling ball on the court, “He told me he’s been doing it for years – s’why he’s older than most of ‘em – but I’m not entirely sure I believe it.” Louis rolls his eyes. “Would you look at him?”

His exasperated tone makes Liam focus again, and Harry’s cap flies off his head as he runs across the court to pick up one of the balls, the two players having a friendly rally as a short warm up. Harry quickly runs, cheeks burning, to pick up his cap and shove it over his decadent curls. He sprints back to his place on the sidelines, balls in hand.

“How would you have met, then?” Liam asks lightly, smiling best he can. Louis glares at him, crossing his arms.

“Stop making sense,” Louis gripes, acting like he’s Liam’s age, “I don’t like it.”

Liam rolls his eyes, turning back to the court and watching the way Federer eases into every shot, the shift of his movement effortless. He refuses to look at the other end of the court, the edge of his sunglasses obscuring his peripheral vision an absolute godsend.

He’s forced to look when the match begins, though – Federer serves and Zayn pelts the ball down the line, Federer scrambling within the first five bloody seconds of the game and losing the first point.

The look on Zayn’s face is darker than its usual neutrality – Liam can recognise some of the subtleties now, like he gained the ability simply from having sex with him. His eyes are sharp, darting from Federer’s head to his toes, taking note of any small weakness or inclination. His face isn’t so clean shaven this time, the stubble looking stark against his pale face. There are slight bags under his eyes, but a firmness to the grip on his handle that wasn’t there in his last game. The muscles of his forearms shift underneath his skin, and Liam rips his eyes away to watch Federer serve, ignoring the itch in his veins and the burning in his chest.

Niall doesn’t know that Liam had Zayn inside him two days ago, but he’s perceptive enough to realise Liam’s tensing at every mention of Zayn’s name and so directs his comments toward Federer for the match, commending his impenetrable mental game and acknowledging the fact that his unforced errors are what’s seeing him down two sets first up. Sophia agrees, putting in her own two cents about Zayn’s ferocity, how he’s more aggressive tonight than ever.

Liam wonders when his friends became tennis experts, but he supposes all those hours of hearing about his training have rubbed off, Liam meeting up with them at the local milkshake place in Wolverhampton after he was done. He recalls the both of them hanging about the centre – Niall used to work there, after all – to make him feel less like he had no friends except the racket in his hands.

He owes them a lot, he realises. A lot of people drifted when Liam’s life became tennis all day, every day; but Niall and Sophia stuck around. Sophia’s his oldest friend, since they were babies. Liam found Niall in secondary, and the two of them only met through Liam a few years later when he had his fifteenth birthday party – hardly a party, but they’d been good sports about spending time with him when they didn’t know each other. Liam doesn’t feel bad anymore, considering they’re dating.

He looks at the two of them – of Niall’s easy arm resting on the back of Sophia’s seat, of the way she’s leant into him so subtly it’s obviously instinctual by now. Her left hand rests on Niall’s thigh, and Liam turns away at the image, too overcome by the way his own thigh tingles with his own memories.

“Game, set to Federer.” The umpire concludes, and Liam claps along with everyone else, eyes glued to Zayn’s clenched jaw.

Federer wins the next set as well, and Niall’s almost pulling his hair out at the tension. Louis’ got his arms crossed, and the look on his face seems thoughtful, considering, like he’s analysing the play of the game.

Liam doesn’t want to think about it; knows he’s playing Dimitrov tomorrow and then he’s done. His time at the tournament’s been tainted. He’s so grateful to be here, still, but nothing’s sat right since Nadal was escorted off that court, his face twisted in pain.

The last set has Liam biting his nails, Sophia gripping her boyfriend’s hand, white knuckled, the whole time. Louis is leant forward, his elbows on his knees as his fists cover his mouth. He’s not even getting distracted by Harry, even if he was staring at him for Federer’s injury time.

It ends up being Federer’s Achilles’ heel in the end. His quad corks, and his movements aren’t nearly as seamless, his direction shifts a little awkward and forced.

Zayn capitalises, and although it’s closer than Liam would like for himself in a semifinal, Zayn secures the match in a nerve-wracking tie break, crouching down on his knees and resting his forehead on the handle of his racket after the last point as the crowd roars around him. Federer comes to the net with a tired smile and pulls Zayn into a hug before the two of them shake the umpire’s hand.

“Zayn,” Jim says, the crowd falling silent immediately. Zayn zips up his white jacket, wringing his hands in front of him. His hair is pushed off his face, his face a little flushed. “What a match. You’re up two sets to love, and Roger comes back with a vengeance. What changed for you there?”

Zayn’s eyebrows raise, his head tilting as he considers the question.

“I think I gave myself too much credit,” answers Zayn, his face scrunching up as the crowd laughs, “I wanted the match over in three, yeah? I underestimated Roger, though, which is how he managed to push me in those two sets he got.” He pauses, realises Jim wants more, and continues, “He saw my weak spots and he was bloody good at gettin’ to ‘em.”

“And what were your weak spots, do you think?” Jim asks with a grin.

“Probably not best to broadcast tha’,” Zayn answers, bashful grin appearing. Niall snorts next to Liam, Louis rolling his eyes. He looks down at his trainers, bright red things, scuffing them against the court surface before looking back up at Jim.

“Walk me through this, Zayn,” Jim asks, pushing out a hand and looking at it as if he’s drawing an invisible diagram in the air, “The fifth set. What was your move, there?”

“Roger had his injury time, I think,” Zayn muses, frowning thoughtfully, “I thought, he’s not gonna be as quick, not goin’ t’ try for the aggressive shots he’d been pushin’ at me all match. So I snuck in some cross-court shots that I knew he wouldn’t be able to run for. It was hard,” Zayn huffs, bringing a hand up to rub at his jaw, “I mean, Roger never makes it easy.”

“He definitely doesn’t,” Jim confirms, shaking his head as he smiles, “I’ve got to ask – you’re back after over a year treating your ankle, down significantly in rank from your number four spot in 2015. What does this mean to you, being in the Australian Open final?”

“It’s sick,” Zayn says with a smirk, the crowd bursting into laughter, “But really, I knew I could get here. It’s been such a long road to recovery, and coming here felt like–” His smirk disappears, his expression falters, “It felt like a promise,” He clears his throat, “And I’m happy to have fulfilled it, to have got as far as I possibly can in the tournament. There was,” His eyes widen as he inhales deeply, “There was a moment where I didn’t think I could do it, on the plane over here. I’ve just been so grateful to have my family with me – my mum, my sisters; some of my best friends as well, in Perrie and Leigh.” He smiles then, his gaze finding his team box, “My dad – my coach – he’s been the best inspiration, my rock throughout all of this. I couldn’t have done anything without all of ‘em, and I hope they know, I hope they know.”

Everyone yells and screams and shouts, loving the sentiment in Zayn’s speech, the way he’s smiling at the ground because Liam knows Zayn doesn’t often smile, at least not in public.

“Well, there’s still more work to do,” Jim concedes, face going a little serious as the crowd dies down, “One more match, and it’s not going to be easy. Let’s talk about both opponents. Your first opponent, Grigor Dimitrov, who is playing so well, he’s on a roll – what challenges would he present, if he’s in the final, for you?”

“He’s got a pretty complete game,” Zayn comments, nodding, “He can switch it up, as well. He’s performing at his peak, I think, and that makes him a hard man to face, if he knows it.” Zayn licks his lips, face clearing, “I’m happy for ‘im, he’s had some tough years but his odds are good, I think.”

“You think?” Jim prods, and Zayn shrugs, looking away, “So Liam Payne’s not a contender in your eyes?”

“He’s a contender,” Zayn counters, and Liam crosses his arms, trying not to let his face show anything. He’s got no doubt he’ll be photographed, and frowning at Zayn when he talks about facing him probably isn’t the best for press, even if Liam’s out of the loop. “Definitely a contender. I’d be–” Zayn bites back a word, “stupid not to see him that way. He beat Raonic, which for someone unseeded is completely mind-blowing.” Zayn swallows, and Liam urges him to look up, to catch Liam’s eyes and see the fire in them, to feel Liam’s hurt and anger at the fact Zayn hasn’t texted him once, hasn’t sought him out.

 _Look at me,_ Liam thinks fiercely, staring at Zayn, Look _at me!_

“Liam’s got a lot of potential – and I think if he ends up in the final, it’ll be a life-changing match, for both of us.”

“Indeed, Zayn. Thank you, my friend,” Jim concludes, bringing a hand up for Zayn to grasp, “I think all of us here are looking forward to seeing you on Sunday night; you’ve had such a great run this tournament, well done. Zayn Malik, everyone!”

Zayn nods, releasing Jim and turning around to put a hand up to the crowd, acknowledging their support.

Louis shuffles Liam out of their seats quickly, avoiding curious gazes and people determined to have their say. Liam hears a few people call out, a notable “Payne Train, next stop Sunday night final!” causing his stomach to flutter with nerves.

Harry meets them in the back area, his green shirt and abnormally tight shorts making him look like he put on his younger brother’s clothes in an attempt to take his place as ball boy – not like he’s nineteen years old and probably outgrown his summer job.

“Those shorts are obscene,” Louis snaps, glaring at Harry as people bustle around them. Niall and Sophia are off chatting to someone, and Liam’s left alone to witness this. “Put those thighs away, for God’s sake.”

“But I wore them for you,” Harry says quietly, cheeks going pink, “You said you liked them the other day.”

“ _Harry,_ ” Louis hisses, and Harry’s innocent expression morphs into a cheeky grin, “We’re in public.”

“Never stopped us before.” Harry comments with a shrug.

“Oh my God,” Liam groans, putting a hand over his eyes, “Please, I don’t want to know.”

It’s kind of scarring, but it lifts Liam’s spirits in the span of a few seconds. Harry pushes at Louis’ shoulders, but his hand stays there, dragging down Louis’ chest to settle at his hip, squeezing, as he smiles at Louis tender and endeared.

“I’ve got to finish up here,” he murmurs, and Liam looks away, feeling as if it’s a private moment he’s witnessing, “But I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Alright,” Louis agrees, “I’ll text you.”

Liam stares at him with an eyebrow raised as Harry stumbles away, his long legs betraying him.

“Shut the fuck up.” Louis says cheerily, grabbing Liam around the neck and pulling him into a headlock that Liam squeezes out of with a huff.

It’s late, closer to midnight than to eleven by the time Liam gets to his hotel. He plugs his phone into the dock that came with the room, letting some acoustic guitar resonate throughout the room, the vocals low and calm. He takes his time with his shower, the hot water beating into his tender muscles like he’s having a physio session. He stretches them as best he can in the small space, hair wet and clinging to the sides of his face.

He comes out in loose boxers and a ratty old t-shirt that has a faded _Wolverhampton Tennis Centre_ printed over the top of its logo. Liam’s had it since he can remember, and right now it feels fitting to be wearing it – the night before his last game of the tournament.

His sheets feel clean and crisp, and Liam shoves off the covers until he’s left with just one, sprawling across his king sized bed and staring at the ceiling, _and then you'd lie with me 'til I fall asleep, and flutter eye lash on my cheek between the sheets_ sounding out in the room, soft and vulnerable.

Liam lowers the volume and turns out his bedside lamp. The room goes pitch black, and Liam closes his eyes, breathes deep through his nose, and falls asleep to the smell of freshly laundered sheets and _Plus_.

He’s not entirely sure what the time is when he jerks awake, but _Plus_ has moved on to _Multiply_ and a harsh knocking is coming from the door.

Maybe it’s someone complaining about the noise, even if Ed’s voice can barely be heard. Liam disconnects his phone from the dock anyway, just in case, grumbling to himself as he slides out of bed, the warmth of his sheets beckoning him back once he turns the lamp on. His toes scrunch into the carpet at his feet before he stands, shuffling his way across the room and down the short hallway to the door.

He’s opening the door, words on his lips, “I’m sor–”

Zayn’s at his door. Zayn. At Liam’s hotel door. _What?_

“Can I come in?” asks Zayn, quiet in the silence of the dim hallway lights. He looks tired, his hair mussed like he’s been running his hands through it incessantly. He’s wearing joggers and a t-shirt, and Liam stands aside to let him in because he’s not sure what else he’s meant to do.

“M’sorry it’s so late,” he murmurs as he comes up behind Liam, hovering at the entrance to Liam’s bedroom from the hall, seemingly unsure. “I just–” He doesn’t seem to know how to continue, and Liam turns to see his face fall as he bites his lip, looking off to the side like he doesn’t want Liam to see him, see his glinting eyes.

“Zayn,” mumbles Liam, frowning, coming forward until they’re feet apart, the side of Zayn’s face looking wan in the lamplight, his stubbled jaw seeming unkempt in the early hour of the morning instead of alluring. “What’s going on?”

The older man turns his face back, and his eyelashes are wet, his cheeks damp.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, crossing his arms, “I’m sorry,”

Liam doesn’t think this is about the fact Zayn’s been ignoring him. It doesn’t feel like that at all, and fear seizes Liam’s heart as he steps forward, pulling gently at Zayn’s arms. The movement prompts something in Zayn, and his arms drop to his sides as he falls forward, his chest brushing Liam’s as his head rests in the space between neck and shoulder, his breath shaky and wet against Liam’s skin. Liam brings his own hands up as Zayn inhales sharply, jagged, resting them on Zayn’s waist which all of sudden feels delicate, fragile.

“He was meant to be here,” Zayn croaks out, and he presses his eyes harder into Liam, who feels his collar dampen with tears, “Liam. _He was meant to be here._ ”

“Shh,” Liam murmurs, bringing a hand up to cradle the back of Zayn’s head as Zayn’s fingers pull down at the hem of his shirt, like they want to twist and mark up, making something else hurt like he is. Liam doesn’t know what to do, stuck between not knowing and not wanting to know; and the vulnerable way Zayn nudges into him, trembling exhales sounding rough on Liam’s ears – like they’re being dragged out of him. “Zayn, it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” says Zayn miserably, and his face drags up Liam’s neck until his forehead rests against Liam’s right temple, his eyes closed, tears threatening to fall from his thick lashes. His expression breaks, then, screwing up into something that pierces Liam’s heart, leaving it raw and exposed like someone’s taken it to washboard and ground it down until the muscle is mangled and unusable. Liam can’t imagine what _Zayn’s_ must feel like, and that revelation doubles the ache in his bones. “ _Please,_ Liam.” Zayn whispers, and Liam doesn’t know what he wants, what he’s asking for, but Liam so desperately wants to give it to him.

He brings his left hand up to cradle Zayn’s cheek, shifting his face so Liam can look at him properly. His eyes flutter open, and Liam wipes at the moisture below them, his own eyes searching Zayn’s face, asking him without actually _asking._

 _God,_ Liam thinks as Zayn stares at him desperately, _He’s still so beautiful._

When their lips meet, it’s not so much a surprise as the natural progression of things, Liam’s eyes following Zayn’s lean in until he closes them, feeling the scratch of Zayn’s nails at his waist. It’s not a gentle kiss – their faces so closely pressed together that their noses are at awkward angles, crushed into cheeks as Liam tilts his head, opening his mouth and deepening it.

The room is silent save for the heave of their breaths, the shift of their clothes as they push into one another. One of Zayn’s hands comes up to push Liam’s hair from his forehead, pulling away enough to let Liam’s lips drag down his jaw, settle on his neck and nibble at the tendons there, stretched as Zayn tilts his head back.

Liam gets the sense this won’t be at all like it was the other night – where Zayn was teasing Liam, taking care of him, pushing him until he almost blacked out from the pleasure. There’s a slow burn travelling across Liam’s skin, instead; like Zayn’s digging himself underneath and setting fire to everything, destroying him then forging him anew again. Liam’s taller and bulkier than Zayn, even if he is younger; so it’s with ease that his hands glide down to cup Zayn’s arse, pulling him up and loving the way Zayn’s arms move to his shoulders, his legs curling around Liam’s hips as Liam turns them, lowering to the bed so slowly his abs burn once they’re settled.

Frantic hands push at Liam’s shirt, and as it slides over his head Liam grinds into Zayn, his dick hardening by the second as Zayn’s socked heels dig into his lower back. Soon enough Zayn’s shirt joins Liam’s on the floor, and Liam can’t stop kissing him, licking into his mouth languidly, feeling the hoarse, cut-off moans reverberating through Zayn’s chest, the ink on his right breast looking blacker than ever.

He pulls back, Zayn’s lips parted and plump from kissing, to gaze at him, his palms settling on the sides of Zayn’s thighs, caressing them as Zayn’s chest heaves on the bed, his eyes glassy with something else entirely now.

Before his expression can fall – before Zayn can remember exactly why he’s here, why he cried into Liam’s neck – Liam slides his palms up and hooks his fingers underneath the waistband of Zayn’s joggers, ignoring the spike of arousal at the discovery that he’s not wearing any underwear. Still holding Zayn’s stare, Liam pulls the pants down over Zayn’s hips, dragging them off of him slowly and making sure his socks go with it, the material lost somewhere at the foot of Liam’s bed.

If Liam were a poet – or maybe a songwriter – he might have murmured about how Zayn is a vision before him; sinewy but vulnerable, his chiseled face a rarity on such an unfairly _pretty_ person. He might have told Zayn he wanted nothing but to kiss him until they both missed their matches, locked away in Liam’s hotel room like a pair of star-crossed lovers speaking of larks and the ill-timed sunrise. He might have told Zayn, Liam muses as Zayn pushes his boxers down, that his trust is more than anything Liam ever dreamed – that the fact Zayn came to him when he was inconsolable, when he was breaking, means more to Liam than this whole bloody tournament.

That realisation fuels Liam to smash their lips together, anguished and overcome at the thought that everything Liam has before him – a name, a title – could be snatched from his outstretched fingers and it’d be alright; it would be alright if Zayn were there instead, his mouth parted and eyes shuttered like they are now as he lies beneath Liam and trusts him to help Zayn forget about the white noise, to make things better.

Somewhere, somehow, Liam finds lube. He stares at Zayn’s open expression as he enters him, helpless to lean forward and kiss at the Arabic branded into Zayn’s skin. There’s a sound from the man beneath him – bordering on distressed but on the right side of pleasured – that has Liam looking up. Zayn’s eyes are wet again, and he pleads silently with Liam until Liam leans forward to kiss him tenderly, slow and measured.

Zayn’s hands come up to frame Liam’s face as he adds another finger, and their foreheads push into each other, hot air rushing between them. Zayn’s thumbs rub at Liam’s cheekbones, his eyes looking down at Liam’s panting mouth.

He’s quiet, Zayn is, as Liam adds another. His hips thrust up into the full feeling, his cock leaking precome like Liam’s got a hand around him. Liam keeps going, even when Zayn’s hitched breaths turn into short whines, even when his lips disappear into his mouth as his hips shift uneasily. His palms are still against Liam’s cheeks, and Liam angles his head after a few moments until Zayn gets the picture, releasing his lips so Liam can capture them.

Zayn pulls back to lock eyes with him once his thrusts turn jerky and uncoordinated. Liam pulls away then, Zayn letting out a high-pitched sound as his fingers leave Liam’s face. Liam grabs for the condom he managed to find with the lube, and rolls it over himself leisurely before he leans back in, their foreheads pressing together once more. Liam hooks his hand under Zayn’s knee and pushes his thigh to the side gently, his left hand guiding his cock into Zayn with a low groan. Zayn’s mouth drops open, his red lips looking sinful in the warm lamplight. Liam closes his eyes, moving his face to rest in Zayn’s shoulder as he shudders with the warm, tight grip of this man underneath him.

It’s not long before Zayn’s circling his hips slightly, urging Liam to sink deeper. Zayn pulls at Liam’s face until he lifts his head, eyes half-lidded as Zayn pushes his fringe back, clearing his vision. He arches up to kiss him as Liam’s hips stutter forward, letting out a jagged breath at the way Liam pulls back only to thrust forward again, the slow drag of Zayn making Liam moan.

It’s like that for God knows how long, Liam grinding into Zayn in a deliberate rhythm, one hand on Zayn’s neck and the other grasping at the firm flesh of his hip. Zayn’s calves rest on the back of Liam’s thighs, and they tremble with every push of Liam inside him, like Zayn’s seconds from coming apart despite the fact it’s been more than seconds, more than minutes since they fell into each other.

The sweat between them is hot, the air muggy with both the heat of the room and the heat of them together, skin sliding against skin. Liam feels his arms shake with the force of keeping himself up, his palms digging into the mattress on either side of Zayn’s head now. He kisses him again, tasting nothing but Zayn as Zayn’s hands grip at Liam’s biceps, blunt nails scratching up a storm and causing Liam’s hips to falter, stutter out of time.

“Liam,” Zayn breathes, and Liam opens his eyes to look into Zayn’s, his pupils blown and darker than ever, “ _Liam..._ ”

There’s a sting inside Liam, like an itch he can’t scratch. It starts off small, but it grows with every second their eyes stay locked, with every second that Zayn’s face slowly transforms from pleasured to exposed, everything on display for Liam to see. There’s anguish there – unforgettable even now – but there’s also gratefulness, and appreciation. Like Zayn will be forever in debt to Liam for this moment; for the way they’ll be inexplicably connected for the rest of their lives.

The sting gives a sudden and sharp pang, and then Liam feels like he topples into Zayn headfirst, squeezing his eyes shut as his hips pick up pace, his orgasm rushing at him when Zayn clenches around him, crying out as Liam hits his prostate; a change from the slow, dragging brushes of seconds ago.

Liam’s forehead rests on Zayn’s as their breathing evens out, the both of them panting. He brings his right hand up to cradle Zayn’s jaw, to angle his face so Liam can kiss him, Zayn’s bottom lip caught between Liam’s. It’s a barely-there brush, but Liam feels it down to his bones, right down to his cells, to his very DNA.

He pulls Zayn into him once he’s disposed of the condom, and Zayn shivers against Liam’s chest as Liam rests his chin in Zayn’s hair, smelling sweat and lime shampoo and the two of them together.

It must be ten or so minutes before Zayn says anything – long enough for Liam to think he’s fallen asleep – and when he does, it’s in a whisper so quiet Liam’s not sure he was ever meant to hear.

“My granddad,” he says, and Liam’s fingers pause in their brush up and down Zayn’s spine, “ _Daadaa..._ he–” He stops, and Liam feels the way his chest rattles with his inhale, like Zayn’s trying to compose himself, “He passed a week before my scheduled flight here.”

Liam doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing at all.

He remembers, now, that there has always been one more person in Zayn’s team box – an older gentleman, who looked so much like Zayn it was impossible not to realise they were related. He was at every match that Liam can recall, all of them racing through his head in that moment.

Liam says nothing, but he pulls Zayn into him more closely, pressing his lips to Zayn’s head in a long, fierce kiss.

He figures, then, that it’s not that Zayn has no limits – no, in fact, he’s already reached his.

And for Zayn, it seems there is nothing he won’t do to make sure it’s all been worth it – the pain, the grief, the injury. There is nothing he won’t sacrifice to win this tournament, the empty seat belonging to his grandfather a promise he intends to keep.

Liam can’t begrudge him that, even if the thought makes Liam’s heart twist up agonisingly in his chest.

 

***

 

The crowd roars as Liam drops to his knees, falling to land on his back. His racket’s somewhere off to his left, his hands shaking with the knowledge he’s just won against Dimitrov, world number fifteen. His skin is buzzing, the hairs on his forearms standing on end as the court beneath him scrapes against his back as he sits up. Liam stumbles to stand, meeting Dimitrov at the net for a hug, unable to contain himself as he grins wide and bright, his eyes crinkling.

Everything else is a blur, but Jim’s question about playing Zayn stands out, an oasis in a desert, Liam unable to stop trembling.

“He’s brilliant,” Liam gushes, eyes wide, “Absolutely brilliant. I’m so happy for him, that he’s playing the final. It’ll be an honour to oppose him, and I can’t even process that that’s happening right now.” Liam laughs along with the crowd, “I’m just a kid from Wolverhampton, mate, this is unreal.”

The grueling five set match gets to him during his press conference, his adrenaline leaving him in fits and bursts until he’s hunched over the conference table, eyes drooping. He says his goodbyes to the reporters and journalists, hugging his friends and family in the V.I.P. area, and goes into his stretching routine with Louis before he heads on to his hotel, eating his readymade fish and rice with vegetables stirred in. He showers once he’s done, and then passes out on his bed, the sheets caught beneath him.

He wakes late on the 28th, the Saturday morning hot and bright. His nerves are still twitching, his fingertips fiddling with anything they come into contact with as he eats his breakfast, boiled eggs with toast, a follow up of fruit and yoghurt. Plenty of water, too, to combat both the heat and the energy he’s exerted throughout the last few days.

He can’t shake the... _whatever it is_ from his limbs throughout light cardio with Louis, his coach telling him to _cool it,_ to focus on small things like the weight of the racket in his hands, the texture of the ball between his fingers, and definitely not the match that awaits him in twenty-four hours. Louis is collected – so measured in his speech that his experience as a professional athlete shows itself for the first time outside of strategy. Liam looks into his blue eyes and feels part of him settle, his brain slowing down to the point of comprehension – he’s not nervous about the match (at least not enough to have him feeling like he’ll jump right out of his skin), but instead thinking of the way Zayn is so close to his dream, to honouring the promise he made to his granddad.

His lungs feel too small for the heaving breaths he’s making, the inhalations that incite an ache in his oesophagus. He walks from his light hitting session in a daze, but with purpose. Zayn would have practised this morning to avoid Liam, and Liam knows he’s likely in the hotel gym – or maybe watching Liam’s previous games, figuring out how best to counteract his gameplay.

He’s on his way to the hotel gym after signing some things and taking some pictures with people in Melbourne Park. He stops short in the lobby, though, when a pair of dark eyes narrow as he enters. She walks over, quick and confident, to stand between him and where Liam suspects Zayn to be.

“He doesn’t want to see you.” she says, blunt and insensitive.

Liam rears back, frowning, looking more closely at this girl and realising it’s one of Zayn’s sisters – Doniya or Waliyha, he mentioned – and that she’s glaring at him like he’s about to break both of Zayn’s legs and render him incapable of playing the Australian Open final.

“I just want to have a chat,” Liam says, peering around her as if she’s a particularly imposing obstacle, like she’s blocking his view of anything, “Want to say good luck.”

“ _Leave him alone,_ ” she seethes, her hair moving about as she shakes her head stubbornly, “I mean it.”

Liam lands back on the heels of his feet from his tip-toes, finally looking at her. Guilt hits him when he sees her bloodshot eyes, the dark circles underneath, and the greasy touch to her hair. In that moment he realises it’s not only _Zayn_ that lost a grandparent just over two weeks ago, but his sisters as well.

“I–” Liam stutters, shutting his mouth closed with an audible _click_ at her sharp look, “Sorry. Of course, sorry; I’ll go.” He can’t help but look over his shoulder at her as he leaves, though, like she’ll give him once last chance.

But she’s not looking at him; her head is bent, a hand over her eyes as her hair obscures the rest of her face.

The unsettled feeling within Liam doesn’t go away, but he doesn’t bother trying to find Zayn again.

Two hours later he’s shooting his pre-final thoughts, talking into a camera about how he never thought he’d get here, how he feels privileged to have played against some of the greats, that he’ll be playing Zayn Malik in the final. Liam just hopes he doesn’t sound as enamoured on video as he sounds to his own ears, breathless and young.

He watches crappy telly with his friends the rest of the day, Louis’ parting words of wisdom echoing in his head: _Right now it’s just you and the match; everything else is white noise._

The next morning, he gives a sound byte or two to some newspapers and spends some time going over Zayn’s tactics. He has a light hitting session with Louis, who emphasises the importance of mental compartmentalisation before bringing him into a fierce hug.

“I’m proud of you, Payno,” he tells him, breaking away to grin wide and true, “I told you that you could do it, but you’ve done it so well, so effortlessly.”

Liam huffs out a laugh, scratching the back of his head with embarrassment.

“Well, not effortlessly–”

“Fucking– I know, you imbecile,” Louis retorts, rolling his eyes, “I just meant with grace, like. Humility.”

Liam looks at his coach for a moment – the man who sought him out two years ago, who smirked at him and said “How’d you like to win a Grand Slam?” like he’d been to the future and witnessed that very thing. It’s been a long road – of fights, of seriously considering giving up; but Louis has persevered, and he’s pushed Liam to do the same. Liam wouldn’t have made it to the final of the Australian Open under anyone else’s experienced coaching, and suddenly he realises that this Grand Slam will be just as much Louis’ as his if he manages to win.

“Thank you,” he responds, touched, “Truly.”

Their fond staring contest is broken by Liam’s parents, who proceed to spend the afternoon with him as he slowly unravels, nerves hitting him like a freight train when he looks at the clock later and realises it’s five thirty; he’ll be on the court in two hours, and the thought frightens him.

“We’ll be watching,” his dad says as a form of consolation, smiling at him with tears in his eyes, “You won’t have to worry, son. We’re so proud of you, no matter what happens. It’s just a shame your sisters can’t be here.”

Liam smiles, looking down as his socked feet as he remembers their uni responsibilities, both of them doing their Master’s and unable to make the visit. They’ve Skyped him, of course, but it’s not the same as looking over before he hits that serve and seeing their tense faces.

Niall hugs him for a very long time once they reach the arena, and Sophia has Liam’s right hand in a vice, white knuckled grip until Niall physically hauls her away, wishing Liam luck.

Finally, as the V.I.P. area starts to clear, it’s just Liam and Louis. Liam awaits the joke, the immature comment – but Louis seems to forgo those this time, turning to Liam and placing his hands on Liam’s shoulders.

“Payno,” he says, smiling a little wobbly, “ _Liam._ I–” He looks down at his shoes briefly before looking at Liam again, his mouth twisting in his efforts not to cry, or laugh, or show any sort of extreme emotion at all. “Remember, Malik will take you to five sets easily. He’s weak at– _Christ;_ barely anything, these days... but make him angry, yeah?” Louis lowers his head, makes sure Liam’s eyes are on his, “Unsettle him. He’ll start making unforced errors, then.”

“I know,” Liam says, nodding his head, “I’ll push him, I promise.”

There’s a moment where Louis’ eyes bore into Liam, where his face twitches into a realisation of something before he pats Liam’s left cheek softly, a fond smile on his face.

“Good lad,” he says, removing his hands from Liam’s person and stepping back, “Good luck, Liam Payne.”

“Thanks, Louis Tomlinson.” Liam counters, smiling at Louis as his coach turns and walks away, Liam watching his shoulders round the corner until it’s just himself in the hallway, alone and about to play the biggest match of his life.

A suit comes around the corner quick enough, and she gestures for Liam to follow her until he’s walking the back halls of Rod Laver Arena with her, his kit bulky at his shoulder. They arrive at a T-junction and all of a sudden Zayn is there, his red shirt and black shorts screaming at Liam to look. Their eyes lock, and Liam can’t read him at all; can’t see regret, or fondness, or nerves. Zayn’s a blank slate, and as his eyes drift away and he slides in front of him, Liam realises that unsettling Zayn is going to be harder than he ever imagined.

Liam can’t look at the posters of former winners – he just focuses on the line of Zayn’s shoulders, his kit looking heavy as the strap digs into his right one. Once they past them all, a man he doesn’t recognise waits with a microphone just ahead, the corridor curving after him.

Zayn goes first, and Liam can’t hear what he says, or what he looks like. So he focuses on managing his breathing, walking forward once the interviewer is done with his opponent and giving a timid smile his way.

“Liam, you must be feeling overwhelmed – your first Grand Slam, not to mention your first ever final. What are your thoughts?”

“I just want to do my best tonight,” Liam tells him, pushing away tactics and strategies, “I just want to go out there and try my hardest. Zayn is going to be an incredible opponent, and I know I’m so lucky to be here. I’m excited to play some good tennis.”

“Thanks, Liam, and good luck.” The man says, and Liam nods thankfully, following Zayn down the corridor.

Once they reach the blue stairs, Liam stays at the top whilst Zayn lingers at the bottom, stretching his ankles as he waits to be called. Butterflies accost Liams stomach, and he grips the strap of his bag tighter with every minute that passes, anxiety rising and rising.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” a voice announces, and Zayn stands a little straighter, “For the Men’s Singles Championship, will you please welcome – from Great Britain – Zayn Malik.”

He disappears onto the court, and Liam walks down the stairs, taking his place and breathing in through his mouth and out through his nose, legs bouncing in anticipation.

“And his opponent, from Great Britain: Liam Payne.”

Liam walks out, eyes squinting into the bright lights above, hearing the deafening crowd as they greet him with the same enthusiasm. He glimpses signs, a crude outline of a train on poster, before he diverts his gaze back to the court, zeroing in on his bench and dropping his kit onto it once he gets there.

He devours a liquid sugar gel before he’s called to the centre of the court. He wins the toss, Zayn’s face unreadable, and the both of them rally for a minute, warming up their shoulders and arms. Zayn’s shots are average, nothing special – Liam knows he shouldn’t be judging him on his warm up, but he can’t seem to stop, assessing the way Zayn’s ankle doesn’t seem to be bothering him at all, and the relaxed grip of his handle that shows he’s more composed than Liam, who can’t stop the twitch of his fingers.

They head back to their benches one final time before the match begins. Liam wipes down his face, sips at his sports drink, and runs over Louis’ commentary in his head.

“Get him angry,” he mutters, flipping his racket in his hands, “Force him to flounder,” Liam grasps the handle so hard it hurts, turning his head to look at his opponent, who’s sitting down and looking off to the side, faint smile on his face. Liam looks away, looks down at the racket in his hands, at the purple bands around his wrists. Liam thinks of his sisters, watching at home in London; Liam thinks of his parents, watching from the box, as well as his best friends. Liam thinks of Louis, who guided him through this whole process and made him the player he is today.

Liam thinks of himself, and how – although he’ll say otherwise – he knows it’s been his hard work, his technical skill and physical fitness, that’s got him to the Australian Open final of 2017. Liam deserves this.

An unfamiliar ball boy bounces a few balls Liam’s way. Liam pockets one, hits back another, and feels the last one in his hand, winding it around his fingers as he looks up.

Zayn’s at his baseline, knees bent and face expressionless.

Liam looks down at the ball, the _AO_ emblem an image he’ll never forget, like those vivid memories from when you were a kid.

Liam positions himself, looks down at the ball resting against his racket, and pauses.

 _Anger him,_ he reminds himself.

Liam serves.

 

***

 

“Oooh,” Lleyton Hewitt sympathises, “That’s a hard shot from Malik. His serve has been absolutely brutal so far.”

“Definitely,” Jim Courier agrees as Payne grimaces, pulling at his curls in frustration, “Looks like Payne knows it, too. He’ll need to better his anticipation if he doesn’t want to lose this set to continuous aces.”

Malik looks stony as Payne gets into position, the _217kmph_ illuminated behind him, an impressive speed for a serve.

“Malik’s brought everything to this final,” Hewitt commentates as the ball’s thrown into the air, “Payne’ll be hard-pressed to beat him at this level.”

 

***

 

“Game, set to Malik.” The umpire announces, and the crowd goes absolutely wild, chants resonating throughout the arena.

“Ma-lik, Ma-lik, Ma-lik!” They cry, and Niall bites his nails.

“Stop it,” Sophia scolds him, pulling at his arm, “Liam doesn’t need to see us shitting our pants.”

“Soph,” Niall says, looking at Liam over by his bench, his best friend sculling some water, “I don’t know if I can take four more sets of this.”

“You’ll bloody well have to, Niall Horan,” she tells him, and he turns his head to see her olive eyes widen meaningfully, the perfect arch of her eyebrows making her seem intimidating and unforgiving.

_Christ, I love her._

“Liam needs us,” she continues, looking over to their friend as he sits, staring down at the court’s blue surface in a daze, “It’s just been one set. Liam could win this in four – none of us know what’s going to happen.”

Niall’s eyes drift over to Liam’s opponent, staring at the fierce colour of his shirt in horror, like he should’ve known things would be vicious just by its hue. Malik looks at ease, sipping at his drink as he unwraps a new racket.

“Sure,” Niall chokes out, dread sinking his stomach, “Anything could happen.”

 

***

 

“Payne’s done it!” Bruce McAvaney exclaims over the top of the audience’s screams, “He’s broken him!”

“This is incredible tennis,” Courier comments, his tone one of disbelief, “Payne’s shown his ability tonight, that’s for sure.”

“From the beginning of the tournament, Jim,” McAvaney confirms, “Payne’s been lethal since he beat Gilles Simon in the first round. For a wildcard, he’s had enormous success.”

“If he wins this, he’ll be the fifth youngest Grand Slam winner of all time,” Hewitt pipes in, “Pushing Nadal down to sixth place.”

Payne’s curls are dripping sweat, his forearms glistening in the lights of Rod Laver. He throws the ball up into the air, and delivers a serve Malik can’t return.

“This is outstanding!” McAvaney enthuses.

 

***

 

“He’ll get the next one, I’m sure of it,” Louis tells the two sitting next to him. Liam’s parents are worried – of course they are – but Louis knows they’re happy enough that Liam will be a runner up at the very least.

Louis won’t be happy, though. Not when Liam could win this thing – not when he’s holding back like this, letting Malik get the drop on him during the volley rallies, letting balls pass him by when he’d be able to scrape them from the court floor if he pushed himself.

“Push him, Liam!” Louis yells between points, leaning over the railing, the court a few metres below him, “Push _yourself!_ ”

 

***

 

“Fuck,” Niall groans, hiding his face behind his hands, “I can’t fucking watch, I just can’t.”

“Grow some fucking balls, Horan!” Sophia shouts over the crowd as Malik scores another point.

“This is torture!” Niall wails.

He peeks through his fingers just in time to see Liam return a serve with a drop shot. It lands just inside the lines, and Liam punches a fist into the air as the umpire announces, “Forty-forty,” over the roaring of everyone around them.

Niall jumps up, screaming with all his might. Sophia bounces up and down next to him, and he can’t help but turn and embrace her, squeezing tight amongst the insatiable energy of the crowd.

This is some of the most exciting tennis Niall’s ever seen, he realises then – and his fucking best mate is a part of it.

“Come _on,_ Liam!” shouts Niall, “TOOT, TOOT!”

 

***

 

“Half-way through the third set, and neither of these guys seems like they’re tiring.” Hewitt notes, the two players both helping themselves to some gels.

“It’s interesting, isn’t it?” Courier says, “Both of these players have a history of being able to last the full five. Do you think it’ll come to it?”

“I think it might, Jim,” McAvaney answers, “We’re even at the moment, and this looks to be another tie-break coming up.”

 

***

 

“Karen,” Geoff grits out, “Tell me why we agreed to watch this, again?”

“Because he’s our son, Geoff,” Karen tells him, the two sets belonging to Malik sitting heavy in both of their minds, “And he needs us.”

“He hasn’t looked over here once.” Geoff deadpans, and winces at Karen’s sharp pinch to his side.

“Don’t be facetious,” Karen says with an eye roll, “Liam knows we’re here, and that’s enough.”

“I’d like to go to my hotel room and yell at the telly, too, Geoff,” Louis says out of the corner of his mouth, leaning in so he’s not overheard. Geoff holds back a grin, focusing on Liam’s strong shoulders, the way his son is growing up right before his eyes. It’ll be a different person that leaves this arena at the conclusion of the match, Geoff knows. “At least I’m paid to be here.”

Geoff turns and glares at him.

 

***

 

“Two sets all!” Hewitt exclaims, Payne dropping into his seat as if he’s just run a marathon, “This is the most dynamic final we’ve seen in years, for sure.”

“The question is: will Payne be able to hold up in the last set?” Courier puts forth, “He’s shown himself to be an unexpected force on the court, but he’s looking tired out there.”

Payne sucks down another sugar gel, letting one of the ball boys take the empty packet from him as he bends over, his head between his knees. He lingers only for a moment before popping back up, rummaging through his bag and coming out with a new set of wristbands. He replaces his wet ones, and does the exact same with his headband.

“Malik is breathing hard during the rallies, you can tell by his movement – but it’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop,” observes Hewitt.

“Neither of them are giving anything away, you’re right,” McAvaney confirms, “I honestly have no idea how the rest of this is going to play out.”

 

***

 

Payne pelts the ball cross-court, and Malik runs but he’s too far away, almost skidding into an unsuspecting linesman as the ball bounces off the back barrier.

“I’m on the edge of my seat, here,” Courier says, laughing, “Every time I think Payne’s lost it, he comes back with a vengeance.”

“Payne Train is right,” Hewitt says, “Must be pretty payne-ful to play him, I imagine.”

“That’s terrible, Lleyton,” McAvaney says dryly, “Don’t go into comedy, whatever you do.”

 

***

 

He rubs his face with his towel, feeling the tremble in his fingers as if it’s planned. They shake in time with his heartbeat, a steady thump-thump that’s too loud for his head – everything seems too big, too tiring, too much.

He gives his towel away and accept the balls thrown to him, discarding one. His racket feels old in his hands, even if he changed it over during an earlier set. His whole body feels old, now that he takes note. Every muscle is straining, every thought a little sluggish, too slow to match his opponent’s shots.

He looks up, and the red shirt opposite him is stark against the blue, a beacon Liam is helpless to answer to.

Zayn looks fierce, still – his black hair is sticking to his forehead, his face clean shaven tonight. The light blue wristbands look new, too, and Liam suddenly feels dorky in his bright purple ones, a black shirt donning his sweaty shoulders. He pulls up his sleeves for better manoeuvrability and bounces the ball onto the court beneath him. Once, twice, before he falters, catching the ball again as he straightens.

Breathe, he tells himself, eyes glancing at Zayn. His face is unmoved, and Liam feels something in him break at that.

Whether it’s the fact they slept together that’s done it – that Zayn let Liam have... however small it may have been to him, it still mattered to Liam – or maybe it’s that Liam played a five set match more recently than Zayn, that Zayn had an extra day to recover.

Either way, Liam feels his strings cut. The sweat pools in the small of his back, his hands shake harder than ever; and as the ball bounces twice and he throws it up in the air, delivering a sub-par serve, Liam knows he’s lost. He knows he’s done with it, Zayn firing back a baseline shot that Liam doesn’t bother to run for.

It’s not that he gives up – Liam would never give up – but it’s that he acknowledges it’s not happening. Liam’s strung out, and Zayn’s experience is showing; his ability to carefully assess whether a return is worth it has worked in his favour to the point that Liam’s suffering for it, run ragged much more than his opponent.

When Louis told Liam to push himself, he did. But what Louis didn’t know is that unlike Zayn, Liam has a limit – and he’s just reached it, half-way through the fifth set of the final of 2017’s Australian Open.

The final set falters for Liam at that point, and he hears the crowd grow increasingly panicked, like their nail-biting final point will be snatched from underneath them.

Zayn wins the game, and the next, and then Liam manages one more before Zayn gets his fifth game to Liam’s two.

Liam double faults.

“Fifteen-love,” the umpire calls, and the crowd shouts and hollers and Liam closes his eyes and breathes, bouncing the ball as they hush and centering himself.

He manages to score a smash volley in Zayn’s deuce court before Zayn retaliates on the next point with a drop shot that goes long. Liam challenges it because it’s the last set and he has two more left, so why the fuck not. It’s in, though, and the crowd can’t believe it.

Liam can.

“Thirty-fifteen.”

Liam stumbles over his feet to give Zayn the next point, and then the crowd are making his ears ring as the umpire lets them all know.

“Forty-fifteen. Match point.”

Liam bends over, bounces the tennis ball twice and tilts his head up, eyes flicking to Zayn.

He looks the same as always – unflappable, determined. But Liam sees something there in his eyes; a desperation, maybe, or a yearning.

The ball flies up and hits the centre of Liam’s racket, sailing right to Zayn. He hits it right back and the rally goes that way for a bit, the racket handle feeling slippery under Liam’s palm.

Then suddenly, as if Zayn decided to change his technique at a whim, Zayn slices the ball. It slows down so much Liam’s running forward before he can think about it. He reaches the net and the ball as it bounces – but the spin Zayn put on it has it spinning in the opposite direction, and Liam barely manages to tap it over the net, almost tripping.

Liam has enough sense to whip his head back around, and he sees Zayn in slow-motion. His arm comes up, his muscles contracting and relaxing in hyper speed, and the racket curves over the top of the ball. Zayn’s jaw is clenched, his mouth pursed with effort, and his eyes follow as the ball sails over the net, bouncing into Liam’s back court – out of reach for even the most advanced player in the tournament.

There’s a moment where the two of them stop, staring at it as it bounces away past the alley and out of the court. Liam’s head turns back to Zayn as his heart skips a beat, and then everything speeds up.

Everyone’s jumping up, screaming and yelling and shouting as Zayn falls to his knees, arms bulging as he clenches his fists – racket in one – and screams himself hoarse.

All Liam can do is breathe heavily, swallowing back his tears, feeling a deep sadness take him over. There’s no shock, no surprise – and that’s what allows him to cross the net, to walk over to Zayn who’s now leaning his forehead on the ground, body heaving with his sobs.

He looks up as if he can sense Liam above him, and Liam holds out a hand, giving a teary smile.

Zayn stares at him, tears streaming down his face as cameras flash around them, as the umpire calls the match, as the fifteen thousand people in attendance cheer for him.

Their clammy hands clap together, and Liam heaves Zayn up onto his feet and pulls him in, throwing his arms around Zayn and pushing his face into his shoulder. He feels Zayn do the same; the sobs starting up anew, wracking his body.

He’s not sure how long they embrace, but the people around them are still screaming when they part, Zayn’s palms coming up to cradle Liam’s cheeks. Liam laughs, his crinkles pushing against Zayn’s hands, tears rolling down his own cheeks. The two of them grin at each other, and Liam pulls Zayn into another hug, unable to help himself.

He doesn’t want to let go – not now, not ever; and not of Zayn, or this feeling, or this moment.

It’s perfect, even with the disappointment creeping into the corners of his mind. It’s perfect, even if Liam knows he probably can’t smash their lips together. It’s perfect, even if Liam has to rip himself from Zayn’s arms, even if Liam has to turn and walk toward his kit, waving at the crowd who give him a standing ovation as he leaves the court.

 _Absolutely fucking perfect,_ Liam thinks, heart clenching painfully as he looks over his shoulder, sees Zayn run over to his box and celebrate with his family, the four of them crying along with him.

 

***

 

“Mate, can I grab a photo with you? You’re an absolute legend, bro. Tonight was fuckin’ hectic!” The guy’s had his fair share of drinks, but his boisterous laugh belies his true nature, even if his six foot four presence felt imposing at first.

“‘Course,” Liam tells him, “Just wait to post it, yeah? Can’t have a mob raid the bar.”

He’s nice about it, putting a thumbs up in Liam’s direction as the flash goes off. His girlfriend, also tipsy, asks for a photo straight after. Liam obliges, the disappointment wrapped up in his heart unfurling slowly and surely with every smile, with every congratulations, with every look at the pictures from that moment where Zayn stared up at him, face wet with victory.

“Look at you,” Niall teases, punching Liam’s shoulder as he makes his way back over to them with the beers he was sent to buy, “Next thing, you’ll be ditching us lowlifes and hanging with them A-listers. What’s Drake doing these days?”

“Shut it,” Liam snaps without heat. He can’t help but grin, though, and rib him right back. “Drake’s busy on Sunday nights.”

“Babe, did you have that espresso martini?” Sophia asks as Niall crows with laughter, holding his stomach in his glee. Her hand rests on Liam’s forearm. She looks concerned, “You’re going to pass right out, otherwise.”

“ _Yes,_ I had the martini. It tasted like dirt, but I had it.”

“Hey!” Niall scolds, frowning, “Don’t speak to my girlfriend that way, you wanker!”

The night feels like a blur – if Liam wasn’t so sensible, he’d think he’d accidentally taken some sort of hallucinogenic drug with the way the lights of the dance floor seem to illuminate everyone in fits and bursts. Must be the strobe, Liam realises as Rihanna pulses through his veins.

He dances with so many people and he’s just on the right side of drunk as he goes to grab another round – the tang of a few vodka sunrises sounding good to him right now – when he sees him.

“Tough match,” Zayn says, the muscle tee emphasizing his lean arms, veins obvious as they’re crossed, “Thought you were set to win.” His arms drop as he walks forward, and Liam pushes his fringe out of his face, like it’s habit where Zayn’s concerned. The heat of the people around them makes Liam step closer, not further away, and the burn of Zayn’s palm coming up to rest in the space between Liam’s neck and shoulder is one of the most vivid memories from the night. His collar feels too tight all of a sudden, and Liam pulls at the hem of his t-shirt in an attempt to relieve the pressure on his throat. It doesn’t go away, though, and Liam realises that’s just Zayn who’s making his throat close up, his breath go short.

“No, you didn’t.” Liam croaks out, and his head tips forward, his nose bumping into Zayn’s mouth before he tilts his head back up to look him in the eyes.

“Picture,” Zayn murmurs, retreating a little even if his hands still press into Liam like hot brands, “Can I get one?”

Liam blinks away some of the alcohol in his bloodstream, pulling back to look at Zayn properly. His eyes are glittering in the light of the bar, the throb of the music making his hair refuse to sit still, messy and soft on his head.

There’s no evidence that he played a five set Grand Slam final on his face – although, Liam supposes the same could be said for him with the way his t-shirt is still miraculously clean, the nicest jeans he owns tight-fitting and designed to make him look a few years older than his eighteen. He cleaned up nicely, even if he had to have a few more espresso martinis along the way to keep his eyes open. Niall had suggested he tape his lids to his eyebrows, but Liam had been nowhere near drunk enough for that.

There’s just enough alcohol in him, though, for Liam to lean forward, his lips brushing the shell of Zayn’s ear to whisper, “A naked picture?”

He hears Zayn’s sharp inhale before he pulls back to look at his face, Zayn’s mouth twisting as he tries to hold back a laugh.

“What?” Liam asks, feeling petulant, “I can be sexy.”

“Okay,” Zayn appeases him, choking back a laugh, “Alright, babe.”

Liam doesn’t ask what he’s agreeing to – the pictures, or the sexy – but it doesn’t much matter. Zayn’s looking at Liam like he can’t figure out what to do. Liam decides he’s going to figure it out for him.

Abandoning his quest for more drinks, Liam grabs Zayn’s hand and tugs him back the way Liam came, toward the throng of bodies on the dance floor, grinding the early morning away to the final chorus of a Beyoncé song.

He turns once he finds a spot for the two of them, stepping into Zayn’s space in a way that has him swallowing thickly, Liam’s eyes caught on the bob of his Adam’s apple.

When the initial chords kick in, Liam’s eyes snap up to Zayn’s.

_And I know she'll be the death of me, at least we'll both be numb._

“You like this song.” Liam tells him above the music as he grips at Zayn’s waist, dragging him even closer as bodies close in around them.

“Yeah,” says Zayn, bringing his right hand up to cradle Liam’s jaw, a ringed thumb brushing across his cheekbone as he gazes at Liam, eyes fond, “I do.”

_This I know, yeah, this I know._

Liam grins, feeling his eyes crinkle with it, and Zayn grins back, his hips grinding into Liam’s with the beat. They stay like that, breathing against each other’s mouths as Australians jive around them.

Their lips meet as everyone around them shouts the famous lyrics, limbs flailing and bodies jumping to the beat.

“ _I can't feel my face when I'm with you!_ ” a drunk girl yells in Liam’s ear. He cringes away from her, laughing as Zayn’s hand slips from his face to rest at his hips.

Zayn moves his mouth to Liam’s ear as the girl stumbles away, empty glass in hand.

“Why’s your coach snogging a ball boy?”

Liam rears back, raising his eyebrows. Zayn’s looking over Liam’s shoulder, and Liam whirls around in his arms to investigate. He finds them soon enough.

Harry and Louis are right near the DJ, a guy with piercings all over who’s looking at them with distaste as they snog furiously on the dance floor, the play of colourful lights across their faces making them look ethereal – like some sort of hipster art installation in the middle of the club.

There’s the slight possibility Liam might have had too much to drink.

He turns back to Zayn, whose eyes are twinkling with mirth.

“How’d he get in here?” Zayn asks, an eyebrow raised with a smile, “Thought this place was over eighteens only.”

“Shut it.” Liam tells him with a grin, framing Zayn’s face and dragging him in for a kiss.

The music, and the lights, and Harry and Louis, and the espresso martini spilt on the hem of Liam’s jeans an hour earlier all fade into the background.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn murmurs against Liam’s lips, “I’m sorry you lost.”

Liam murmurs right back, cheeks flushed and body thrumming.

“I didn’t lose, Zayn,” he says with a quirk of his lips, “I met you.”

“Oh, fuck off!” Zayn laughs, pulling away to laugh harder, his face bright and _happy._

“I’m eighteen,” Liam defends himself, tamping down a grin, the butterflies in his stomach tittering giddily, “I’m allowed to say these things.”

“No, you’re not.” Zayn retorts, rolling his eyes, “You are most definitely not, Liam.”

Liam just kisses him again, a kiss of teeth and stretched lips as they both fight back smiles.

“You’re supposed to let me have this,” Liam says, biting his bottom lip to stop himself from giggling like... well, like a teenager, “I lost, remember.”

Zayn just hums, staring at him with an enamoured smile on his lips. Liam kisses him again, addicted.

He wonders whether this is something he can claim if he can’t claim winner of the 2017 Australian Open.

 _The person who gets to kiss the winner?_ His drunk mind supplies.

It’s too much thought for the moment, though, so Liam just kisses Zayn – he kisses him through the next few songs; he keeps on kissing him when Louis tries to mock the two of them. He resorts to kissing his neck as Zayn makes a jab at Louis about Harry’s age, and moves right back to Zayn’s lips once Louis curses at him and storms away, a laughing Harry in tow. He kisses Zayn as the dance floor thins, and he kisses Zayn in the cab on the way back to the hotel. He kisses Zayn against the glass of the penthouse until he gets vertigo and then he’s kissing him on the couch, lazy and hot.

He kisses Zayn in the early hours of January 30th, and he hopes he gets to keep kissing him right into February, and then March, and then April, and then...

Liam kisses Zayn, and he thinks maybe coming runner up isn’t so bad.

_Doesn’t mean I won’t beat Zayn next year, though._

Liam laughs into Zayn’s mouth, and feels those last tendrils of disappointment leave him.

**Author's Note:**

> This was honestly so difficult to write???? I don't know why, but I can't look at this any longer. I hope you all enjoyed it, and please FOR THE LOVE OF GOD let me know what you thought. I just need feedback on this, 'cause it killed me to finish.
> 
> Also, never let me estimate my word count again. This was supposed to be 20k... smh.
> 
> Over on tumblr at [rainbowliam](http://rainbowliam.tumblr.com).


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